


the subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone

by the_one_that_fell



Series: the heaviness that i hold in my heart belongs to gravity [4]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, Eating Disorders, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_that_fell/pseuds/the_one_that_fell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitty was a ghost to the world around him, and most days he preferred it that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lord, I never intended for this to turn into such a behemoth. I apologize if the tags/TWs are somewhat lacking, there are a lot of things Bitty feels (that I share) that I just don’t have the terminology for. 
> 
> This was broken up sort of arbitrarily, it was supposed to be a one-shot and I didn’t realize it had surpassed the character limit or whatever? I posted it an it cut more than half the story off so, um, thanks for not supporting my bad life choices, ao3. 
> 
> TW:Eating disorder, panic attacks, body issues, body disconnect?, (depersonalization?), canon typical alcohol abuse, somewhat graphic description of throwing up, mentions of past bullying, minor homophobia, guilt, rocky parent-child relationships, description of blood and minor injury

_Shadows all around you as you surface from the dark_   
_Emerging from the gentle grip of night's unfolding arms_   
_Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?_   
_The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone_

 - _You Are the Moon,_ The Hush Sound

 

The sight of his own reflection made Bitty sick to his stomach.

Every morning he got dressed in his closet and glanced at the mirror only long enough to pat down wrinkles and straighten collars. Bitty brushed his teeth facing the shower and styled his hair from muscle memory, thankful for his lack of facial hair and need to shave. He kept his eyes away from dark computer monitors and car doors, avoided puddles on the sidewalk and freezer doors at the grocery store; when alone, Bitty’s preferred routes around campus avoided all of the buildings with tall, reflective windows.

Sometimes Bitty saw himself as a ghost, nothing more than a jumble of thoughts and memories, completely intangible. He was a momentary spark of life in a world filled with bodies, writhing and lashing and screaming.

When he was young, Bitty would spend hours sitting on the second-floor landing of his parents’ house on the nights they threw grown-up parties, watching the guests as they mingled and drank and danced around each other in the cramped living room. No one ever saw the small child in pajamas curled up by the railing, clutching a stuffed bunny to his chest. He’d been entirely invisible, an outside observer to their drunk, giddy, _human_ interactions.

That feeling stuck with Bitty as he grew up: when he perched at the top of monkey bars on the playground to watch the others play tag; when he sat alone at a table during Homecoming as his classmates danced and snuck swigs of their flasks; when he hid under the bleachers during football practice, longing to be one of the players, if only to earn a smile from Coach.

Bitty was a ghost to the world around him, and most days he preferred it that way.

 

* * *

 

Everything about Bitty felt too large - his personality, his emotions, his body, _Lord_ was his body too big, too clunky and _in the way_ -

He liked watching the numbers on scale drop, liked watching as his body shrank and took up less space in the world around him. Bitty couldn’t control his voice or his flamboyance or heart, but he could keep himself small.

Bitty dreamt of curling in on himself, tucking between his own ribs and disappearing inside himself, a black hole, an empty space. He’d be safe in that nothingness, away from the world and the hungry, angry predators of the world, like a rabbit in its nest far below the earth.

When he ate - when he felt full - there was a heaviness to his body, a solidness that he couldn’t ignore. It was the feeling of gravity, he supposed, like being tackled to the ground, the weight of the world pulling him towards the earth. So Bitty didn’t let himself get full, didn’t let himself feel heavy. He was small and he was nothing, and those were the things that kept him safe.

 

* * *

 

 

When Bitty drank he felt lighter than air.

His motor functions were the first thing to go, long before his speech or inhibitions. Sometimes his hands and face went a little numb, like they’d fallen asleep. It was a nice feeling, a fuzzy disconnect from his body, and Bitty found he could dance without embarrassment, without the usual hyper-awareness of himself that tended to make him self-conscious.

This wasn’t his first Haus party, but Bitty was still just a Frog and he’d never dreamed of touching alcohol back home, so it only took a few kegsters and some suspiciously strong mixed drinks for Bitty to reach that that blissfully disconnected level of _drunk_.

Then he ran into the doorframe, and realized he might be a _little_ past that point. He laughed.

“Brah,” Shitty said, sidling up to Bitty and wrapping an arm around his waist. He looked almost concerned. “I think that last kegster was a mistake.”

“ _No-o-o_ ,” Bitty said, barely stifling his giggles. “It was ‘swa-’swawesome!” He was vaguely aware that his head was resting against Shitty’s collarbone, but Bitty felt too far removed to really feel it.

“C’mon, Bits,” Shitty said softly, herding him towards the stairs. “I think you better sleep this off.”

“Shit- _ty_ ,” Bitty whined. “They’re playing _Beyonce_ . I can’t leave _now_.”

Shitty snorted. “Bitty, if you try to dance right now you’re gonna end up hitting someone in the face or, like, breaking something. Possibly your whole _body_. Let’s go.”

Shitty all but carried Bitty up the stairs, and once Bitty’s legs gave out from under him. He’d thought it was hilarious, but Shitty grimaced and tucked his arms under Bitty’s armpits to haul him upright.

Bitty felt the telltale lurch of his gut as they reached the landing. “Bathroom,” he said, his vision starting to spin. “Gonna puke.”

With a sigh, Shitty shoved him through the bathroom door, and Bitty collapsed against the toilet just in time to empty the contents of his stomach. Shitty scrunched his nose and looked away for a moment, then back to Bitty. He pursed his lips as Bitty finished, a little too interested in the toilet Bitty leaned against.

“Brah, not to be, like, _weirdly_ invasive, but...what did you have for dinner?” Bitty realized he was peering _into_ the toilet, where Bitty had just vommed. Shitty was a weird dude.

“Um.” Bitty scrunched up his face and thought very hard. He’d been in the library with Ransom that evening, then he’d wanted to record a vlog in his room before changing for the party, so he’d grabbed a banana from the Haus kitchen when he’d arrived and some leftover muffins- no, he’d decided against that, too sweet…

“A banana?”

“ _Bits_ ,” Shitty admonished. “You can’t do kegsters on an empty stomach!”

Bitty could feel his pulse pounded behind his eyes. He groaned and leaned against the toilet. “I wasn’t hungry…”

“Bitty.” Shitty knelt down next to him on the tile and rubbed his back. “You’re a hot mess, bro.”

Despite himself, Bitty laughed. “I am,” he said, rubbing a hand across his face. “I’m a _hot mess_.”

“C’mon, let’s chug some water and go to sleep. You can take my bed tonight.”

Bitty rose on shaky legs and let Shitty manhandle him across the hall. He dutifully drank an entire glass of water as Shitty cleared the candy wrappers and dirty laundry off of his bed, then curled up against Shitty’s pillow, eyes drooping with fatigue.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow,” Shitty said, not unkindly. “Try and get some sleep. I put my trash can right here in case you need to ralph again.”

“Thanks, Shitty,” Bitty mumbled. As he mind slowly started to clear, the situation was growing more mortifying. He felt tears begin to well up in his eyes and his limbs sunk into the mattress like lead weights in the ocean.

“Aw, fuck,” he heard Shitty mumble. “Alright, comin’ in, bro, guard your gnads.”

Bitty squawked as Shitty climbed over him, slinging an arm over Bitty’s waist as he settled on the bed behind him. Bitty froze, muscles tensing, face burning hot.

“Brah, c’mere,” Shitty said. “You’re gettin’ weepy, that means it’s time for cuddles.”

There was something soft in the usual roughness of Shitty’s voice, something kind. Bitty let Shitty spoon up against him, some of the tension dissipating from Bitty’s spine as he was enveloped in the warmth of another person. So _this_ was the reason everyone loved cuddling so much. Bitty couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held like this - perhaps as a child, by his mother?

A few more tears leaked from his eyes at that thought. Eighteen years in the closet, eighteen years of alienation and loneliness. An entire lifetime lived in the shadows, in the corner, staring down at the world from the top of the stairs with stuffed bunny clutched in his arms.

But now? Now there was a strange boy drunkenly snuggling him because he was crying, no questions asked, no gay panic. Maybe he was safe here. Maybe he had friends here. Maybe...

 

Bitty woke up alone, a sharp pain in the back of his skull and knots in his gut. Groaning, Bitty pulled himself from Shitty’s bed. His tongue was thick and cottony and everything tasted like bile and roadkill.

“Never drinking again,” Bitty grumbled to himself, only to be met by soft laughter.

Jack stood in the bathroom that connected his room to Shitty’s, toothbrush in hand. “Rough night?”

“I’m not a hundred percent convinced I’m alive right now,” Bitty said, rubbing at his temples. Everything was too loud and too bright and the scent of Jack’s toothpaste was making his stomach churn. “Please tell me heaven doesn’t look like the Haus. Please.”

“Sorry, Bittle,” Jack said, placing his toothbrush back into the cup that balanced on the edge of the sink. “If anything, this is what hell looks like.”

Bitty laughed, then regretted it as he head began pounding in double time. “Okay, I’m gonna go back to my dorm and pass out or die. See you, Jack. Tell Shitty thanks for me.”

Jack smirked. “I will when he wakes up.” With a look of fond exasperation, Jack jerked his head back towards his bedroom. Bitty stepped into the bathroom and caught sight of Shitty curled over 70% of Jack’s bed, snoring loudly.

“You’re not the first person he’s given his bed to,” Jack said softly. “I think he likes the excuse to steal mine.”

Bitty smiled. “Y’all are close, huh?” He couldn’t even _fathom_ his daddy’s boys willingly sharing a bed. These hockey bros were so familiar to Bitty in some ways, yet so completely alien in others.

“Yeah, Shitty was my first friend at Samwell,” Jack said with a shrug. “He has a way of forcing his way into your heart, whether you want him to or not.”

Jack turned to wash his face and Bitty took that to mean he was done with the conversation. Bitty thought about his words the entire walk home, thought about the casual intimacy of Shitty’s friendship, about the possibility that maybe he could be himself with these boys. Or, at the very least, _one_ of them.

That afternoon he baked his finest strawberry cream pie and snuck it into Shitty’s room as a thank you.

A week later, he asked Shitty to meet him outside Founders, index cards tucked into the pocket of his new winter coat, and a secret on his lips.

 

* * *

 

When Bitty was eight, he played football.

(He was known as Junior, then, or sometimes Eric. Only his mother and Moomaw ever called him Dicky.)

He liked football alright. Eric was an energetic kid and could outrun all the other boys. He loved playing tag, and the junior peewee football team was no more than a variation on that. They chased each other around and held a ball and sometimes (purposefully) fell into damp spots on the YMCA field so they could throw mudballs at each other when Coach Montgomery wasn’t looking.

Then Coach Montgomery’s sons graduated to the middle school team, and all the parents begged Daddy to take over. He’d done such good work with the high school - wouldn’t it be great to work with the little ones, to mold them into the star athletes the school district deserved? A little discipline would be _so good_ for those boys.

Eric liked that Daddy was going to be coaching him; it made him feel like one of the big, popular boys on Daddy’s high school team. Eric started calling Daddy “ _Coach”_ to make him chuckle, ran harder and faster at practice to make Daddy proud.

But Coach wasn’t happy with the junior peewee team. No matter how fast Eric ran, Coach still yelled at them, still made them run suicides until they felt sick, still refused to praise them no matter how hard they worked. The mud fights ended. The roster slowly shrank as the weaker or less interested boys begged their mamas to let them quit. And then, Coach decided they were old enough for tackling.

Eric overheard an argument between Coach and Mama one night, when he was supposed to be asleep. He was sitting at the top of the stairs, drinking the glass of water he’d gotten up to fill, when voices drifted up from the living room.

“Richard,” Mama was saying, voice thin and strained like when she was really tired or mad at Moomaw. “They’re too young.”

“I was younger’n them when my brothers started tacklin’ me.”

Mama huffed. “You were a big kid, honey. Dicky...Dicky’s so _small_.”

“They’re all _small_ ,” Coach said gruffly. “It’ll be good for him, toughen him up.”

“I don’t like this, Richard,” Mama mumbled. Eric couldn’t see her, but he imagined her crossing her arms. She always did when she and Coach fought.

“It’ll be fine, Suzanne. Junior’s fast, the other boys can’t never catch him in practice. He’ll make a fine running back one day.”

This made Eric smile. Coach _never_ talked about how fast Eric was - he sounded so proud!

“Of course, boy flinches every time the ball comes near him. Getting hit’ll be good for him.”

Eric smile fell. He sighed and stood up. Maybe if he got tackled, Coach would be proud of him. Eric had started going to the skating rink in Atlanta with his cousin, Jenny, and even though he fell a bunch he didn’t cry at all! Making getting tackled would just be like falling on the ice rink. If it made Coach proud, then he could handle some cuts and bruises.

Eric first got tackled during a scrimmage at the end of practice. Mikey passed Eric the ball, and Eric actually _caught_ it, and so Eric began to run. Eric loved this part of the game, dodging the other team, dancing just out of reach, sprinting towards the goalposts like a bat outta hell. He could hear Coach yelling at him - _“KNEES UP, JUNIOR! ELBOWS OUT!”_ \- but it was the good kind of yelling, when Coach was excited. Eric soared down the field. Nothing could stop him now.

Then Hunter Long, the only 11-year-old on the team, came out of nowhere. Time slowed down for Eric, as Hunter’s shoulder slammed into his lower gut. Eric hit the ground with a thud, all the air pushed from his lungs, his bones reverberating with the force. His eyes watered involuntarily and he gasped for breath. Coach was yelling again - not the good kind - and Hunter was trying to help him up but Eric _couldn’t_ , was shaking too hard.

Someone was picking him up, and for a brief moment Eric hoped it was Daddy, but he smelled Mama’s perfume and heard her soft voice in his ear, and Eric clung to her as she carried him away from the field.

“It’s okay, Dicky,” she murmured. “That was a hard hit, but you’ll be okay.”

When practice ended, however, and Coach drove them home without saying a single word, Eric wondered if things _would_ be okay.

That was the last time Eric ever played football.

It was also the last time he ever thought of Coach as _Daddy_ again.

  


* * *

 

 

Bitty didn’t procrastinate because he was lazy.

(Well, maybe a little, sometimes. Everyone had their lazy days.)

But Bitty _liked_ his classes and was _fascinated_ by the subject matter in most of them. He could work for hours perfecting his pie recipes and figure skating and video editing. And yet…

Bitty sat at a table in Founders with Ransom, Holster, and Jack. Shitty had already been asked to leave by one of the librarians for getting into an argument with one of his Comp. Law classmates (“FIGHT ME YOU BIGOTED DICKFACE COCKHOLE!”) and Johnson...well, Bitty wasn’t entirely sure Johnson actually studied.

At the moment, Ransom was staring at his notes with his head clutched in his hands. It didn’t look like he was actually reading, but Bitty had seen Ransom’s graded exams and knew that he must be absorbing all the material _somehow_. His lips were twitching a little, almost forming words. Bitty looked away, a little unnerved.

Across from Ransom, Jack was typing furiously at his laptop, pausing only to check a quote from one of the ten books on the table in front of him. His entire essay outline flowed tidily across two pages in his notebook. Bitty couldn’t help but stare at the neat, blocky letters and highlighted sources and - did he use a _ruler_ on those lines?

Bitty looked up to see Holster smirking at him. The two of them sat a little separated from the other boys, and though Holster seemed concentrated on his reading, he was more restless than the other two, fidgety in his seat and occasionally checking his phone. Now, though, his attention was on Bitty.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” He asked, eyes darting over to Ransom and Jack. “They’re like anxiety-driven machines.”

“Huh?” Bitty frowned. “What do you mean?”

Holster shrugged. “It’s like...I don’t ever want to see the day one of them actually fails a test or something - God forbid an entire class. The idea of it freaks them both out so much, it’s like Red Bull or something. Powers their stressed-out little engines, y’know?”

“Oh.” Bitty looked over at Ransom again, watching as his wide, sleepless eyes scanned every row of text, completely focused on the work. Jack was the same, his features schooled into the tense, serious expression that Bitty recognized from pre-season practices. “Oh, wow.”

“Chyeah, man,” Holster said, turning his eyes back to his book. “You never really get used to it. Kinda puts the rest of us to shame, huh?”

It amazed Bitty, that Ransom and Jack could funnel their fears and anxieties into something productive. Here he was, scared shitless of doing poorly in his intro Communications course, and subsequently putting off the paper he should’ve started weeks ago.

And that was always Bitty’s biggest problem, all through high school and now, at Samwell: academic stress debilitated him. His SAT scores had been decent, good enough for Samwell, but he’d always tested well. Doing readings for class discussions, writing papers, studying for exams that made up huge percentages of his grade? It was all so terrifying he didn’t even know where to begin.

Guilt slowly welled up in his chest, tightening around his lungs. If Jack and Ransom could focus their anxiety into studying, could overcome that paralyzing fear of failure, then why couldn’t Bitty?

“Bittle,” Jack said, looking up from his laptop. “Stop tweeting and do your assignment.”

Bitty looked back to Holster, raising an eyebrow. His expression must’ve been _incredibly_ unimpressed because Holster burst out laughing, voice booming and reverberating throughout the library.

“Great,” Jack muttered, turning back to his paper. “We’re _all_ getting kicked out this time.”

 

* * *

 

 

In the Bittle household, food was love.

Mama Bittle cooked every meal to be the very best for her boys, made soup for sick neighbors, whipped up batches and batches of Christmas cookies to send to family every year. Bitty’s frog year, she sent monthly care packages, filled to the brim with homemade trail mix and energy bars and his absolute favorite brownie bites. Suzanne Bittle fed the people she loved.

Bitty was the same way. Everything that came out of his oven was crafted with care for his teammates, his friends. When Ransom was panicking over an upcoming exam, Bitty whipped up his favorite honey-peach pie. When Shitty and Lardo were disgustingly hungover, Bitty left a tray of mini quiches and Advil outside Shitty’s room for them. When Jack was in a mood, Bitty would make peanut butter cookies, if for no other reason than to get a signature “protein” chirp out of his grumpy captain.

Bitty wasn’t the most tactile person. He didn’t hug people at random like Shitty and Holster, nor did he clap people on the back (or the ass) like Jack and Ransom. Even Lardo liked to snuggle up against her friends, which Bitty just- he couldn’t do that. Didn’t know how.

So Bitty baked. Baked and cooked and blended and mixed, his only outlet for the immense love he felt for his team. And they loved him for it, praised his name every time they came into his kitchen. No one who ever crossed the threshold into his domain left without a full belly and a warm heart.

No one, that is, except Bitty himself.

He and Jack were sitting at the kitchen table one evening in early October, both tapping away at essays and enjoying the relative peace that came on Wednesday nights in the Haus. (Rans had a study group, Holster worked at the tutoring center, and Shitty holed himself in his room to work on his theses and law school applications. Bitty was just finishing a paragraph when his stomach rumbled _loudly_. For about the tenth time in as many minutes.

Jack looked up from his laptop with a huff.

“Bittle, when was the last time you ate anything?”

Bitty shrugged. “Team breakfast, probably.”

Jack stared at him, mouth pressed in a thin line. “You need-”

“To eat more protein, yadda yadda, I _know_ , Jack.” Bitty laughed and rolled his eyes. “I had eggs for breakfast.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Jack said with a sigh. “I was going to say you need to eat more than one meal a day.”

Bitty froze; this was going to be like Katya all over again, being watched at every meal, having food forced on him like he was a child. He wasn’t sure he could handle that from Jack.

“I do,” he said, returning his attention to his laptop.

It wasn’t that Bitty had an eating disorder. It’s just that Bitty and food...didn’t have the healthiest of relationships. But that was certainly none of Jack’s business.

“This isn’t figure skating,” Jack snapped. “You need to be eating three meals a day.”

Bitty bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something rude. “I don’t appreciate the implication that figure skaters are - what? All anorexic? Somehow not working _just as hard_ as hockey players?” He packed up his books and laptop with a huff. “I don’t even know _how_ you were trying to insult figure skating, but congratulations! You didn’t even need to _specify_ to make it clear you have zero respect for us.”

“Bittle, I didn’t mean it like that,” Jack said, scowl disappearing. “I’m just concerned-”

“I left some notes at the library,” Bitty said, hoisting his backpack over one shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Jack.”

Bitty wasn’t sure what he was really mad at  - Jack’s comment about figure skating or the fact that a second person in his life had caught on to his eating habits.

Well, second-and-a-half. Mama bugged him from time to time about his weight, concerned he wasn’t eating enough, but that was as natural to southern mothers as breathing. She plied him with pies and cookies and all manner of delicious, deadly treats. Bitty always took a bite or two, to be polite, to assuage her, but never could quite finish. Everything she made felt heavy on his tongue, hard to swallow.

Katya had seen right through Bitty’s excuses, had known one too many anorexic skaters in her time to see his prominent ribs and collarbones as any else. But she couldn’t prove it and Bitty was stubborn so her concerns never amounted to more than protein bars shoved into his hands before practice and stern glances when his stomach rumbled.

Bitty didn’t actually need to go to the library, but it was closer to his dorm than the Haus for sure and if his roommate, Devin, still had his “friend” over, then Bitty probably needed to give him a few more hours.

Powered by his frustration with Jack, Bitty managed to get three pages of his paper written and most of his readings done by the time he started feeling sleepy. Devin tended to go to bed early, so Bitty wandered back to the dorm, shivering in the chilly, Autumn night.

His stomach growled loudly as he hiked up the two flights of stairs, but Bitty ignored it. He’d done pretty well, at the library, despite his fading irritation with a certain captain; maybe he deserved a snack when he got in.

Bitty opened the door slowly, surprised to still see lights on in the room. Devin waved at him, typing away furiously at his computer.

“Hey, Eric,” he called, chugging something from a thermos. Bitty hoped it was coffee. “Your friend dropped some groceries off, I put ‘em on your desk.”

“What?” Bitty set his bag down and reached for the plastic Stop n’ Shop bag that sat next to his books. “Who?”

“Didn’t tell me his name,” Devin grunted, backspacing angrily for what must have been several lines. “Tall, jock-y. Kinda rude, honestly.”

Bitty bit his lip, pulling out the contents of the bag one by one: a couple of apples; a six-pack of instant ramen; a jar of peanut butter; a bag of whole-wheat pretzels; and a box of protein bars, the type that Bitty always saw lying around the Haus kitchen. Despite himself, he smiled fondly at the food.

“Hey, do you mind if I steal some ramen?” Devin asked, shoving some of his books off his desk to make room for others. “I’m starving.”

“Sure.” Bitty tossed him one, then started tucking the rest away on shelves and in drawers. The apples he lined up on his desk in a neat, little row.

“Oh, hey, dude, there’s a sticky note on this,” Devin said, peeling a yellow square from his ramen packet. “It just says, ‘Sorry.’ That’s kind of weird.”

Bitty laughed softly and took the sticky note from Devin. “Yeah, Jack’s kind of a weird guy.”

He grabbed an apple from the row and bit into it. They were in season right now, small and crisp and bursting with flavor in a way he’d never known in Georgia. But there was something else, too, in this apple that made something soften in his chest, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Bitty ended up eating two apples, a ramen pack, and a handful of pretzels dipped in the peanut butter. In the morning, when he walked with Jack to checking practice, he munched on a protein bar. Jack said nothing, but smiled the whole way to Faber.

 

* * *

 

Bitty and Ransom were at the mall, trying on shirts for Lardo’s upcoming sophomore art show. Bitty was used to shopping with his mother or Lardo, someone who would stay in the changing room with him and tell him if things fit well so he wouldn’t have to glance in the mirror longer than necessary. But as cool as Ransom was, Bitty wasn’t _Holster_ , he couldn’t just _ask_ Ransom to be his mirror, to change with him in a cramped space, just the two of them.

(A part of him was just waiting for the team to wake up and realize Bitty was the enemy. He loved his boys more than he’d ever loved friends before, but they were a pack of wolves and he was a rabbit - it was only a matter of time before they realized he was prey.)

The shirt he’d pulled on was nice, though a size too large. It’d been awhile since Bitty had needed a new size in anything, but while it was snug around the shoulder, the fabric was baggy at his waist.

As he adjusted the collar, Bitty looked up and met his own gaze. His blood ran cold.

“Bits!”

Ransom popped his head through the curtain of Bitty’s changing room without warning and Bitty jumped in the air. “Oh, sorry bro, should’ve knocked. Dude, looks good!”

“Um, thanks,” Bitty said, hand to his wildly beating heart. “Let me see yours.”

Ransom shoved his way into the dressing room and posed, flexing his arms. Despite the uncomfortable tingling in Bitty’s fingers and face, he laughed. “You look very dashing. I’m sure you’ll be fighting off hordes of art majors.”

Ransom laughed and slung an arm around Bitty’s shoulders and steered him around so they were both looking in the mirror. Bitty cast his eyes away.

“Look at us, Bits,” Ransom said with a grin. “Two handsome motherfuckers.”

Bitty laughed nervously. “We’ll certainly be the best-dressed members of the hockey team, that’s for sure.”

“Always are, bro. Always are.” Ransom finally let him go and Bitty found himself unconsciously stepping away, crowding himself in the furthest corner of the very small dressing room. “Five bucks says Chow wears his Sharks hoodie.”

Bitty let out a dramatic sigh. “That boy’ll be the death of me.”

Ransom slapped him on the back and chuckled, ducking back out of the dressing room. “I’m gonna look at shorts while we’re here,” he called. “I think Holster threw out my last pair of Nantucket Reds.”

“Okay,” Bitty called back, voice a bit uneven. When the curtain fell again, he realized his hands were shaking.

He nearly ripped the shirt in his haste to pull it off, and all but ran from the dressing room to the cashier. By the time Ransom finished his shopping ten minutes later, Bitty had calmed down enough to suggest hitting up the Starbucks next to Forever 21. He couldn’t finish his latte, though, for the heavy knot in his gut.

 

* * *

 

Growing up in Georgia, Bitty learned from a young age to be fake.

It’s not as if anyone called it that - it was being polite, composed - but it was what it was. He learned to fake interest in boring people’s conversation. He learned how to fake pleasure in seeing one of his father’s rude friends in the grocery store. And he learned how to fake happiness, so as to never be ungrateful or a burden to those around him.

Even after getting a taste of the north, of brisker interactions and blunter people, Bitty didn’t resent this upbringing. He knew that his polite chit-chat with the bagger at Murder Stop n’ Shop made her job a little less tedious, and he never wanted anyone to walk away from an encounter with him disgruntled or disappointed. Bitty wanted people to like him, wanted to make them happy with him, proud of him. If putting on a smile after a grueling checking practice made Jack think highly of him, then _by gum_ he would do it.

But some days...ooh, some days he wanted to give Jack Zimmermann a piece of his mind.

“Bittle, _get it together_ ,” Jack barked as Bitty crumpled to the ice. It shouln’t’ve taken Bitty by surprise, he _knew_ Jack was coming his way, and yet…

“I can’t _control_ whether or not I faint,” Bitty snapped, tossing his helmet to the side. “It just _happens_.”

Jack gave him a long, hard look. He still looked angry, but Bitty suspected that was just how his face was all the time.

“You’re fainting because you’re scared,” Jack said finally. “We just need to get to the point where you’re _not_ scared.”

“Right,” Bitty said, rolling his eyes. “Because having my huge, angry captain slam me into the boards and yell at me is gonna help me _not_ be scared. Genius.”

Jack looked genuinely shocked; Bitty didn’t talk back to people. (His mama had raised him right, _thank you very much._ ) But it was early and Bitty was tired of being pushed around, literally _and_ emotionally, and Jack was just going to have to deal with the fact that Bitty _wasn’t getting better_.

“We’re done for today,” Jack said, voice dangerously quiet. “I’ll see you at practice this afternoon.”

Bitty wasn’t quite sure how to feel as Jack skated off the rink. Sure, he was relieved that checking practice was over early, but the look of disappointment in Jack’s eyes-

No. Nope. He was _not_ going to feel guilty just because he finally told Jack what he needed to hear. No one ever told Jack off for being rude or mean, not even the coaches, so it would do that boy some good to realize he wasn’t the _center of the universe_. He wasn’t the only boy on the team with personal problems.

 

In the end, Bitty _did_ feel guilty for how he’d acted, and spent the entire day in an anxious haze. He skipped breakfast and forced himself to choke down an apple for lunch, but his stomach was tight and unsettled from the shame. Practice began at 4:30 on Wednesdays, and Bitty was the last one into the dressing room, hands twitching as he changed.

“You feelin’ alright, Bits?” Shitty asked, clapping Bitty on the back. Bitty flinched, but forced a smile.

“Right as rain,” Bitty replied easily.

Practice was a mess. Their drills were sloppy, their scrimmage was pitiful, and the coaches made them skate suicides at the end of practice as punishment for their lackluster performance.

Surprisingly, though, Jack didn’t scream at anyone. Even when Bitty crumpled to the ice after a check, even when Random and Holster smashed into each other, even when Johnson let in every goal, Jack did not lose his temper. He seemed tense, though, maybe angry, but more...sad.

The coaches wrapped practice up and sent them to the showers. The team shuffled off the ice, a tense sort of disappointment lingering between all of them. Bitty was following Shitty into the dressing room when he heard his name.   
“Bittle.”

Jack stood behind him, still in gear, leaning against the wall. He looked serious - he always looked serious - but not angry enough to start screaming at Bitty. Maybe.

“Yeah?” Bitty turned to fully face Jack.

“About practice this morning...”

All of the shame and guilt that had built up inside Bitty bubbled to the surface, and he could feel his face turning pink as he blurted out, “Jack, I’m _so sorry_ , that was completely out of line for me to say, you’ve been taking extra time to help me with this stupid problem and I shouldn’t’ve been so ungrateful, I’m sorry, I’m just so frustrated with everything right now but I shouldn’t’ve said you were scary, you’re just trying to help-”

“ _Bittle_.”

Bitty looked up. Jack looked bewildered, eyes wide.

“No, Bittle, _I’m_ sorry.” He looked down at his feet, and Bitty could almost swear he was embarrassed. “I’ve been going about your...checking issue the wrong way. It was stupid to assume that you were just scared of getting hit. It’s clearly more serious than that and I’m sorry for thinking I could just...check it out of you.”

This was certainly not how Bitty had imagined this conversation going. He honestly was unsure of what to say.

“Oh.” Bitty bit his lip. Jack looked remorseful and sullen, shoulders hunched and tense. “Um. I’m still sorry for snapping at you.”

Jack shrugged. “I deserved it. Besides, it got me thinking about how we can help your issue.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I called my therapist and talked to her about it.” Jack shrugged casually, but Bitty could see he was anticipating some sort of response to the word _therapist_. Bitty schooled his features into what he hoped was a warm, understanding look and nodded. “She thinks we need to find the root of the issue.”

Bitty grimaced and Jack actually laughed, soft and low. “Yeah, I told her I wasn’t going to psychoanalyze my teammate. So then she suggested we try to make the practice environment, um...friendlier?”

“Friendlier.” Bitty raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugged. “I was thinking we could maybe play some of your music? If that would make you more comfortable. And…” He took a deep breath, cheeks flushing a little. “I’ll try not to yell as much...or at all…”

Bitty smiled. “Thanks, Jack. That would help a lot, I think.”

“Good.” Jack attempted to return the smile, but he just looked uncomfortable instead. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow morning then?”

“Yeah, see you in the morning,” Bitty said softly. Then, because he couldn’t resist. “I hope you realize what you’ve signed up for, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack looked wary. “Um…?”

“My game day playlist is a work of art,” Bitty said, hands on his hips. “And it’s 90% Beyonce.”

“Well, then,” Jack said with a huff. “I guess I’ll _finally_ get to hear a Beyonce song, eh?”

Bitty’s smile fell. “Are you being serious right now?”

Jack just grinned and pushed past him into the dressing room. Bitty chased after him, hand over his heart. “Jack Laurent, if you’re chirpin’ me right now, I swear-!”

Jack laughed again, louder, and the tension in the dressing room broke. Despite being worn out and disappointed, the boys all seemed looser, happier, and Bitty wondered just how much of an influence their captain really had on them.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the concussion wasn’t the worst part of getting checked in playoffs.

It wasn’t the pain, either, or the way he couldn’t breathe properly for minutes afterward. It wasn’t even the way that, for weeks afterward, he flinched away from men on the sidewalk, in hallways, in his own dorm.

No, the worst part was the shame that lingered in his stomach, shame and guilt.

He couldn’t tell if he blamed himself for the team getting eliminated in the next round - morale had been low, after he’d been benched, at least among his friends - but it didn’t matter. _Anyone_ would feel guilty if they saw the devastation on Jack Zimmermann’s face when they lost.

Idly, Bitty wondered if Coach had been watching the game with Mama. Had he been proud when Bitty skated off the ice? Or disappointed that he hadn’t finished the game? Probably the latter, Bitty mused. Every single one of his teammates who’d been knocked down by Spencer had kept playing. But Bitty was smaller than them, weaker and wimpier and no matter how hard he and Jack had worked, he just hadn’t been able to take that check like a _real_ hockey player.

 

That night there was a mourning party at the Haus. Ransom and Holster seemed determined to get everyone hammered, and invited as many people as they could on such short notice.

“You don’t wanna come, Bits?” Holster asked, frowning.

Bitty slowly shook his head. “No, the doctor told me not to listen to loud music, dance, or drink with this concussion. Looks like I’m benched for the rest of the kegster season, too.”

“Aww, Bits.” Ransom patted him gently on the back, pouting a little. “Won’t be the same without you there.”

Bitty found this oddly touching. “Have fun, y’all. I’m just gonna go sleep everything off.”

Bitty’s room was empty when he arrived. Devin had been dating this girl, Erin, for a few months now, and he tended to sleep at her place most nights anymore. (If Erin had a roommate, Bitty pitied her.)

It was...unnervingly quiet after all the time Bitty had been spending with the team. It should’ve been a relief - Holster’s voice was _so loud_ and with the concussion it hurt Bitty’s head _so much_ \- but instead it just felt lonely.

It was still pretty cold out, but Bitty couldn’t sit still in his cramped dorm room, no matter how tired he felt. So he pulled on an extra sweatshirt and his jacket, grabbed a beanie from the drawer, gloves from his pockets, slipped on his boots and left, ignoring the anxiety that was tickling the back of his neck.

The river was pretty this time of night, twinkling under the streetlights that littered the walkways around campus. Bitty strolled alongside it, occasionally pausing to skip a rock across the surface.

There was a shout across the bridge as Bitty got closer to North Quad, and he saw Shitty waving at him. Lardo and Jack trailed behind him, in the midst of one of their silent, eyebrows-only conversations. Jack was shaking his head, an intense look of sadness on his face. Bitty’s heart sank.

“Ey, Bits!” Shitty jogged across the bridge, smiling too widely for someone who just lost playoffs. His eyes looked a little bloodshot, but Bitty wasn’t sure if that was from weed or if he’d been crying. Given his smile, Bitty hoped for the former.

“Hey, Shitty,” Bitty said softly. “Thought y’all would be at the party.”

“We’re having our _own_ party, Bitty Bits,” Shitty said, slinging an arm around Bitty’s shoulder. Bitty shrugged him off gently and Shitty took a step back, still smiling easily. “A big, ol’ pity party, featuring our beloved captain. Would you like to join us?”

“What does a pity party entail?” Bitty asked carefully, watching as Lardo and Jack approached. Lardo had tucked herself under Jack’s arm, forcing him into a side hug as they walked. Jack didn’t look any happier, but the tension in his shoulder dissipated a bit.

“We try not to define it,” Shitty said, stroking his mustache. “But mostly we just try to make Jack do something dumb.”

“Last time, we got him to go skinny dipping with us in the pool,” Lardo said with a grin. “I guess the stupid part was breaking _into_ the pool building.”

“Oh, my,” Bitty said with a grin. “How reckless, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack grunted, but made no real reply. The guilt in Bitty’s gut swelled and he looked away. If only he’d been tougher, been strong enough to fight off Spencer, he could’ve at least made Jack proud, could’ve been on his line for the next game and shared the shame of losing.

“We could break into the art building and play with paints and stuff,” Lardo suggested, looking up at Jack, eyebrows raised.

Shitty scoffed. “It’s not breaking in if they leave the studios open 24-7, Lards.”

“Well, we need to choose something quick, I’m turning into a popsicle out here,” she retorted. “The art building’s warm. So is the pool building. Or, hell, even Founders…”

“What about the student kitchens?” Bitty asked, surprising himself. “Uh, I don’t know if it’d be open right now, but they usually forget to lock it up. We could bake something?”

Shitty grinned at him. “Bits, always looking out for our poor, empty stomachs.”

“That’s the munchies, talking,” Jack chirped softly. “You ate an hour ago.”

“Ooh, Bits, will you teach me how to make those rad snickerdoodles you made for the Yale away game?” Lardo asked, tugging on his sleeve. Bitty wasn’t close to Lardo, but he found friendship came easy with her, and he smiled as she made puppy-dog eyes at him.

“Alright, alright. C’mon, let’s go before my fingers are too frozen to hold a whisk.”

They trooped across campus to the kitchens, which were thankfully open, and Bitty set to work immediately. He put Shitty to work cracking eggs and pushed Lardo towards the flour and sugar, digging around for the proper measuring cups. Jack stood by the counter awkwardly, still sad and mopey. Bitty debated internally for a moment, then said, softly, “Jack, would you grab some butter from the fridge for me? Unsalted.”

Jack looked up and nodded, moving towards the large refridgerator. Shitty gave Bitty a thumbs up when Jack’s back was turned and Lardo smiled at him.

Baking always relaxed Bitty, no matter what, so he let himself fall into the rhythm of it all, dancing around Shitty and Lardo and Jack to mix this and measure that, directing the others like the conductor of an orchestra, the anxiety in his mind washed out by the heat of the oven and the chemistry of a few simple ingredients blooming into something wonderful. For the first time since he barely skated himself off the ice, head pounding and bruised, Bitty felt content.

As he slipped the cookie sheets into the oven, Bitty caught a glimpse of Jack and Shitty from the corner of his eye. Shitty had his arms around Jack’s chest, holding him close, head tucked under Jack’s chin. Jack wasn’t even pretending to be annoyed; he leaned into the touch, the harsh lines of his face softening, thawing.

Bitty was jealous of how easily physicality came to them, how Jack could hug Shitty like that when he felt bad. Bitty had gathered from conversations and ESPN articles that Jack had issues - anxiety, maybe? - and that they were probably linked to his overdose - surely not coke, like everyone said, that didn’t seem Jack’s style - but he’d never witnessed this kind of vulnerability in Jack, not even during Family Weekend. It was shocking, really, to see Jack Zimmermann looked small and sad and wrung out.

“I have to say,” Bitty started, a little tentatively. “Y’all were surprisingly helpful.”

Lardo snorted and Shitty huffed indignantly. “ _Bitty_ , I am very helpful _all the time-_ ”

“Okay, okay,” Bitty said, holding up his hands in defense. He met Jack’s eye and winked. “Let me rephrase: Jack and Lardo were surprisingly helpful. Shitty, all you did was crack eggs and lick the bowl.”

Shitty, who still had cookie dough stuff in his mustache, turned away dramatically, sticking his nose in the air. Jack laughed, softly, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Bitty’s stomach lurched with a sense of victory.

Once the cookies were out of the oven and cool enough to pack, Bitty sectioned them off into four plastic bags. Everyone took one, and they found themselves wandering along the river again, eating warm cookies and goofing off.

“We should piggyback race,” Shitty said suddenly, nudging Lardo with his hip. “Two tiny bros and two big bros? This is a primo piggybacking situation.”

Lardo rolled her eyes. “You’re, like, an average-height bro at most, Shits.”

“No, Bittle needs to rest,” Jack said sternly. He turned to Bitty, face serious and severe. “No matter how minor, a concussion is something to be taken seriously.”

Bitty frowned. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. Jack’s face fell and Bitty bit his tongue.

“Jack, you need to eat, like, ten more of these cookies,” Lardo said suddenly, shoving her baggy into his hands. “Seriously, Bits’ cooking is magical, this shit’ll heal your _soul_.”

Jack huffed a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards, and - to everyone’s surprise - he took another cookie and bit into it.

“These _are_ really good, Bittle,” Jack said, voice softer than before. “Thanks.”

Bitty felt his face heat up from the praise. “Oh, don’t thank me! You all helped.”

Lardo took his hand and began swinging their arms back and forth. “The power of teamwork!” She said, grinning at him.

“Jack-a-belle, carry me to the Haus,” Shitty said, listing into Jack’s side. “I can’t go any further. I’m too full.”

With a laugh, Jack hoisted Shitty over his shoulder like a gangly, stoned sack of potatoes. Shitty yelped at the sudden movement, but settled down once he realized how close his face was to Jack’s ass.

“Hello, old friend,” he cooed. “Ain’t you a beaut?”

“Stop talking to my ass, Shits,” Jack said with such a weariness that Bitty wondered if this was a common occurrence.

“I will when it stops being so goddamn magnificent,” Shitty replied easily. Yeah, this was obviously a conversation they had frequently.

“C’mon, guys, let’s walk Bits back to his room,” Lardo said, still swinging their arms. “And also go through all his personal things and invade his privacy.”

“I’m in!” Shitty yelled. Jack sighed.

“You’re in Hancock, right?” He asked Bitty. “Or...Morton?”

Bitty was stunned silent for a moment, taken by surprise that Jack remembered which dorm he was in. “Hancock, yeah.”

“Is your roommate asleep?” Jack asked, shifting Shitty to a more comfortable position over his shoulder. “Keeping these two from one of their plans is a hassle, but if it’ll cause issues with your roommate…”

“Oh, no,” Bitty said quickly. “Devin’s spending the night at his girlfriend’s place. Got the room to myself tonight.”

“Ye-e-es!” Shitty yelled. “Party at Bitty’s!”

Shitty and Lardo had not been kidding about going through Bitty’s things. As Bitty shucked off his boots and coat, they went right to work, picking up his books and pictures to examine. When only Jack was looking, Bitty squeezed past them to tuck Senor Bunny under his pillow. Jack chuckled when he noticed, but mimed zipping his lips.

“Nice Beyonce poster, brah,” Shitty said, nodding appreciatively. “Ooh, is that Michelle Kwan?”

Bitty nodded. “I loved her when I was a kid. Still do, obviously.”

“Aw, Bitty, is this your mom?” Lardo held up a framed picture of Bitty and Mama at his high school graduation ceremony. Moomaw had taken it, claiming her makeup was too messed up from crying to be in the picture as well. Coach was notably absent. “You look just like her.”

“Ah, man, Lards, you totally missed meeting Mama Bittle during family weekend,” Shitty said, coming over to look at the picture. “She was so great, baked like ten pies with _Dicky_ here and bossed Ransom and Holster around.” He paused, smiling. “She calls me Mr. Crappy.”

Bitty and Lardo laughed at that, but Jack had gone noticeably sullen. Maybe he was remembering family weekend - his father, the game, the things he’d said to Bitty…

Bitty waved the thought away. Jack was just being pissy, mad about playoffs. Well he could join the fucking club.

“Are you sure you should be sleeping alone tonight?” Jack asked suddenly, face unreadable. “Your concussion’s still so fresh…”

That...wasn’t what Bitty had been expecting. “Oh, um, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll set my alarm for every couple hours-”

“Nah, bro, one of us can stay,” Lardo said. “Ollie and Wicks took turns checking on you last night, right?”

“Yeah,” Bitty said. “And Johnson. But I’m fine, really-”

“Slumber party!” Shitty shouted, pumping his fist. “Bits, do you have a sleeping bag?”

“That’s…” Jack faltered, holding up a hand. “That’s not what I meant…”

“Well, I’m not hiking across campus every hour to check on Bits,” Shitty said. “Not that you’re not worth it, bro, but this is _way_ easier.”

Bitty smiled shyly. “There’s a sleeping bag under the bed, and I have some extra blankets. I don’t think Devin would mind if someone camped out on his bed, he never sleeps there anyway.”

“Sweet, brah.” Shitty pulled out the sleeping bag. “You two don’t have to stay,” he added. “But it would be _way_ more fun if you did.”

Lardo grinned and Jack nodded tersely. “I’ll set my phone alarm,” Jack said. “Every hour.”

“Dibs on the bed,” Lardo said quickly. Then, slyly added, “ _One_ of you nerds can join me. The other gets the sleeping bag.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll take the sleeping bag.”

“Aw, but Jack,” Lardo said with a teasing grin. “I wanted to snuggle.”

With a manic grin, Shitty tackled her onto Devin’s bed, wrapping his arms and legs around her like an octopus. “Say no more, Lards. Jack’s bad at snuggling.”

“With _you_ , maybe,” Lardo said, but nuzzled up against Shitty anyway. Bitty smiled and draped his extra blankets on top of them.

“Seriously, y’all-” Bitty began, but Jack cut him off.

“We’re doing this, Bittle,” he said, voice as stern as before but gentler. “It’s the least I- we can do.”

Bittle frowned, but let it slide. “Alright. Do...do y’all wanna borrow any pajamas?”

“No,” Jack said as both Shitty and Lardo shouted, “YES!”

“Bitty, your pajamas are super cute,” Lardo said as she rifled through the drawer. “Oh, my goodness, do these have _bunnies_ on them?”

Bitty felt his face turn red and he nodded. “Yeah, my moomaw got those for me a couple years ago. They’re, uh, really comfortable.”

“Careful, Bits,” Shitty said with a soft smile. “She might steal them.”

Everyone got changed - even Jack, who relented and let Bitty hand him the biggest pair of sweatpants he owned - and settled into their sleeping arrangements for the night. Lardo and Shitty drifted off pretty quickly, Lardo more or less curled on top of Shitty’s chest, but Bitty wasn’t quite ready to fall asleep.

“Jack?” He whispered, peering over the edge of his bed. Jack looked up, wide awake. “Do you...now this might sound silly, but do you feel _guilty_ for what happened? Me getting checked?”

Jack didn’t answer for a long time, and if Bitty hadn’t been able to see his eyes he might’ve thought Jack had fallen asleep. Eventually, he murmured, “Yeah.”

“Well, don’t, okay?” Bitty said forcefully. “You just overestimated me, that’s all. I should’ve been able to take the hit-”

Jack sat up, frowning. “That check was rough, Bittle. It would’ve taken _Holster_ down. I knew it was a risky play and I called it anyway.” He ducked his face away. “I said I had your back. And I didn’t.”

Sighing, Bitty leaned over and flicked Jack in the head. “Hockey’s a contact sport, Jack. I knew what I was signing up for. It’s not your job to follow me around on the ice and keep me from getting hit. Now stop being silly and go to sleep.”

Jack didn’t lie back down right away, instead giving Bitty a long, curious look. Then, he smiled, a little sadly, and settled back against his pillow.

Bitty followed suit, chest feeling a little bit lighter, and quickly drifted off to sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Coach was an asshole.

Most of the people in Bitty’s family were, especially on his daddy’s side. It wasn't like Coach was  _ special  _ in his dickish ways  _.  _ The Bittles had never quite grasped the concept of southern passive-aggression like the Phelps’ had; they were as aggressive as a group of people could get without murdering each other. They always spoke their minds, always had to prove they were right, and never, ever backed down from confrontation. They seemed to  _ enjoy  _ fighting with each other, something that Bitty and Mama had never understood.

Bitty had learned from an early age to never, ever talk back to Coach, no matter how unfairly harsh or rude he was being. It only ever ended in him getting yelled at, and even as he got older he knew that there was no argument in the universe that he could win with his father. It was better to take the hits lying down and agree with everything Coach said, then escape to the ice rink or the kitchen and never, ever let his father see him cry.

It wasn't that Bitty was  _ scared  _ of confrontation, per se...he just preferred to avoid it. At all costs.

Today Coach was in a good mood, though, so Bitty was feeling pretty content. Coach had actually been pretty nice since Bitty’d come home for the summer. He'd complimented the bagels Bitty and Mama had slaved over (“Three days of prep, huh? You can taste it. Good work, team.”) and was still chuckling about the “rats nest” comment Bitty had made about Mrs. Collins’ new hairdo. The three of them sat on the back porch, sipping their coffee before the morning got too hot, and enjoying a quiet moment as a family.

(Bitty and Coach didn't hate each other, despite how angry Bitty got sometimes. They were still family and they loved each other a lot. Bitty was grateful for everything his parents had given him - skating lessons, hockey gear, Samwell tuition, 18 years of a comfortable life - but sometimes he wished for more. Wished Coach understood him, or at least that Coach would back off a little on his dreams for Bitty. He was never going to the NFL now. That ship had sailed. Time to let go or adopt a new son.)

“How's your head feelin’ today, Dicky?” Mama asked after a while, shading her eyes to look over at him. Bitty smiled.

“Feelin’ right as rain. Should be cleared to play come Fall.” It was a conversation they'd had a thousand times, but Mama worried. She always worried about him.

Coach hadn't been  _ proud  _ when Bitty returned home for the summer concussed. He was a football coach, he’d seen concussions ruin careers, ruin  _ lives  _ . But that was the first he'd really asked Bitty about hockey, about how big that Spencer kid had been, about checking and positions and strategy. It was almost like they were bonding, like real fathers and sons. Like the son Coach wanted.

Bitty had taken to wearing his hockey shirts around the house - the one with his Samwell number, another SMH tank top from the campus bookstore, the Georgia Tech hockey shirt he'd gotten on a tour, the myriad of goofy shirts he'd ordered for his club team in high school - just to keep reminding Coach that his son was, in fact, an athlete.

“Didja hear about the Miller boy?” Mama asked, her voice going hushed the way it did when she wanted to gossip. Bitty strained to remember who she was talking about - Ben Miller, three years ahead of Bitty, had done marching band and newspaper, and had run their school’s incredibly tiny GSA his senior year. Bitty had gone to a few meetings, telling his parents he was getting tutoring from his math teacher, but it was mostly straight kids, and while it was nice to know there were kids at school who didn't want to burn him at the stake, it wasn't the community Bitty yearned for. Besides, hockey kept him busy.

“He's gone and gotten engaged,” Mama whispered, and Bitty hummed in response. Most of the kids from his high school were at least engaged by the time they graduated college. This wasn't that exciting.

“That's nice,” Coach said, not looking up from the crossword he was working on. Bitty turned back to his phone and liked Ransom’s latest Instagram pic.

“To a  _ man,”  _ Mama finished dramatically. “Moved up to New York and everything.”

Bitty felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at Ransom’s picture, a cute candid of one of his sisters eating an ice cream cone, a dollop of vanilla cream on her nose. He clenched his fist, short nails biting into his palm.

“Hmm,” Coach said. And nothing else. His face was impassive.

Mama continued on, not deterred by the lack of response. “Well, all the ladies at church are in a tizzy because of it. He's such a handsome boy, and he went out with Katie Turner for the longest time. We were all so certain they were gonna get hitched after high school. It's a shame.”

Bitty bit the inside of his cheek. He was Facebook friends with Katie and knew for a fact that she had a girlfriend. Apparently the church ladies hadn't caught onto  _ that  _ yet.

“What sport did he play?” Coach asked and Bitty almost laughed.

“He didn't,” Bitty said. “Marching band.”

“Ah,” Coach said. And that was that.

“Rumor is,” Mama said, sipping at her coffee. “His mama ain't even gonna go to the wedding.”

Bitty looked down at his lap, lips pressed together tightly. Without thinking, he pulled up Facebook and went to Katie’s page. At the top of her friends list was Ben Miller, and Bitty was tapping out a private message before he even realized it.

“Now that's been a point of contention in the family,” Mama continued, oblivious to the way Bitty had tensed up. “The other Miller kids - Jenny and, um, Mark - stole their Daddy’s credit card to buy themselves tickets to New York. ‘Course, they're in deep doo-doo for that, but Mr. Miller wants to go up and show his support and it's a big ol’ thing.” She winked at Bitty conspiratorially. “The entire extended family’s getting involved and it's turning  _ nasty.” _

Bitty forced a polite smile. “Like the peach debate you had with Aunt June  _ all  _ last summer?”

It was a dirty move, and Coach glared at him for bringing it up, but it changed the subject like a charm. Mama began a rant they'd heard a thousand time, about cans and preserves and orchards, and Bitty relaxed his fingers enough to finish his message to Ben:

_ Hey, Ben, you probably don't remember me but I was a couple years behind you at MCHS.  Played hockey with Katie, went to a few GSA meetings. Heard about your engagement and I just wanted to reach out and say congrats! Wishing you and your fiancé all the best. -Eric _

He closed out of his phone and took a long, deep breath. He could feel his parents’ eyes on him, could feel the weight of their stares, but he couldn't look at them.

Bitty knew exactly how his parents would react if he came out. Mama would be awkward and maybe ask if this was some sort of phase, something all the boys did at a school like Samwell. She'd eventually tell him that she would love him no matter what, even if he was a serial killer or something, which wouldn't be nearly as comforting as she would think. Then she'd continue pointing out cute girls every time he came home, in the vain hope that he would change his mind.

Coach wouldn't say anything. He never did when he was disappointed in how his son turned out. And Bitty suspected Coach already knew - surely he'd heard the things his boys said about Bitty in high school. The rumors. The slurs. There was no way he hadn't.

He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. Everything was too much, the heat of the sun, the way Mama was slurping her coffee, the way Coach cleared his throat every few seconds instead of just coughing. Bitty felt like he was going to explode if they didn't stop. He'd never wanted to get out of Madison more, not even when he was in high school and dreaming of some unnamed college far, far away. He still had two months here, two months until he went back for pre-season training. He couldn't skate, couldn't even go for a run or listen to his music.

"What's wrong baby?" Mama asked, frowning a little.

He wanted to say, "You." He wanted to say, "This family" or "Everything" or just curse and scream until he was blue in the face.

But it could be worse. So he didn't.

"Just feelin' a little tired," he lied, pointing at his head. "Gonna go inside for a bit."

"Okay, baby," Mama said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Take it easy."

Bitty all but ran to his room, locking the door behind him. He wasn't tired, didn't want to sleep, so he pulled up Instagram again, liking the picture Holster had posted in retaliation to Ransom's. It was a far less cute picture of his own sister, ice cream mashed into her face, lunging towards the camera. Bitty felt a little calmer and laughed. He left a comment below Ransom's row of laughing emojis that said:  _ lol RIP holtzy  _ ☠

 

* * *

 

The dressing room was empty by the time Bitty shuffled in. He was sore, he was cold, and a weight had settled over his shoulders, bearing down with each step he took.

Practice had been brutal. The team was in a weird mood, stressed with upcoming midterms and playoffs and whatever else made hockey bros tense. Bitty had been checked multiple times during their scrimmage - though Holster maintained his had been an accident - and though Bitty had only fainted once, he still felt shame bubbly up in his gut like bile.

And Jack - oh, Bitty almost missed the days of Jack screaming in his face. There had been such disappointment on Jack’s face that Bitty’s heart felt shattered, splintering in his chest. Jack had sacrificed so much of his time to help Bitty, when he had bigger things to be worried about.

Bitty stripped down in his stall, chucking the clothes into his gym bag without folding them as he usually did. He was a burden to this team, no matter how hard he tried, not even when a soon-to-be NHL player coached him weekly. Part of Bitty suspected the only reason Hall and Murray hadn’t kicked him off the team yet was because they didn’t want to upset Jack’s game, or Ransom’s and Holster’s morale, or Chowder’s feelings. But that was stupid, the guys would be way better off without Bitty holding them back…

Bitty showered quickly, concentrating on the feeling of water scalding his skin and not the pressure in his chest that always preceded a panic attack. He wandered into the bathroom without a towel, secure in his knowledge that everyone else was long gone, when he caught his reflection in one of the half-fogged mirrors across from the urinals.

Too thin, too short, bruised to hell - like a Goddamn Georgia peach - and shivering in the unheated room, Bitty was blotchy-faced and as schlubby-looking as the men in his town who’d hit their prime in high school, all beer-bellies and receding hairlines.

Bitty poked at his own gut and tightened his jaw. He’d been drinking a lot recently, doing kegsters and playing pong. Maybe he was destined to be like the burn-outs, the washed-up losers who never amounted to anything and heckled high school girls at the public pool and flew Confederate flags on their shitty trucks and-

Bitty wasn’t quite sure how he ended up on the floor, head tucked between his legs, towel discarded, naked and shaking and numb. His breathing was ragged, coming in panicked, shallow gasps, and his heart was racing.

Part of him wished someone would come by, Ransom or Shitty or even Holster - not Jack, never Jack, that would be _mortifying_. Bitty would rather Lardo or one of the coaches find him before Jack. Chowder. A janitor. _Anyone_ _else_.

Pulling himself up on shaky legs, Bitty managed to make it into the dressing room without looking in a mirror again. He threw on his clothes, stumbling back into his stall once or twice, and raced from Faber, heart still beating erratically, vision still swimming.

When he found himself in front of the Haus, Bitty wasn’t entirely sure which route he’d taken to get there or if he’d seen anyone he knew on the way. The windows were mostly dark, the other inhabitants at class and in the library and wherever else their daily lives took them.

Bitty baked. Of course he did. He baked and baked and baked until he was sweating from the heat of the oven and tired from kneading the crust by hand and dancing around the kitchen to Sia. His mind still buzzed though, his limbs still felt swollen, heavy. Bitty sighed and headed up to his room, to pretend to study or to sleep or just to lie in silence until he finally,  _ finally _ calmed down.

Five perfect pies sat on the kitchen counter to cool. Bitty did not eat a single bite.

  
  


* * *

 

 

When Bitty recorded his vlogs, he held very little back. He talked about his fears, his doubts, his troubles with checking and studying and certain teammates. It was the only place he felt he could vent, could show any sort of unhappiness or frustration.

Bitty was inherently a guilty creature. (Sometimes he blamed his mother’s side of the family for being so damn Catholic. He’d been raised Presbyterian, he wasn’t supposed to feel this damn guilty  _ all _ the time.) He tried to never be ungrateful for anything and it frustrated him that he was  _ so  _ sad when his life was  _ so  _ nice. He felt guilty when he was full. He felt guilty when he didn’t eat. He felt guilty complaining about anything, except to strangers on the internet. It was his one outlet to just...be.

Bitty loved recording on his good days, too, loved sharing his happiness with everyone. The nicest comments he got were on those days, things like, “this vid made my day!” and “u r such a lil ray of sunshine boo.”

Bitty liked that. Liked being a sunny spot in someone’s day. Liked having recorded proof of his achievements, his high points. And the number of those videos increased dramatically the longer he was at Samwell, gushing about his team and the things he’d baked at the Haus and Jack- Lord, did he talk about Jack a lot. He couldn’t help it; Jack made him happy.

When Bitty edited his vlogs, it was like watching a stranger. It wasn't the same as looking in the mirror - there was nothing that could connect that body to Bitty in Bitty’s mind. He thought of the boy in the videos as a distant cousin, someone vaguely familiar but foreign, unknown. Bitty hated the sound of his voice, but he didn’t mind the way his body looked through the lens of a camera - it wasn’t him, not really, and he could study it objectively. He looked good in red, and his undercut made him seem a little older, and he’d lost some of the roundness in his face that made him look like a middle schooler.

Bitty often wondered how people would react if they found his YouTube channel. His freshman year he’d worried a lot about Mama finding the videos where he talked about being gay. But now...now he worried about his teammates finding the videos where he talked about checking or fear of coming out or-

He mostly feared Jack finding the videos where he said some...less than kind things about him. But Jack could barely use Google most days, and was the only person in the Haus that really seemed to respect Bitty’s privacy, so Bitty assumed it was mostly an unfounded anxiety. Still...part of him wanted to delete those videos, just in case.

He never did, though. Good or bad, he needed the proof for himself - the proof that he had a life, the proof that he was changing, growing, the fact that though he had his downs, he had his ups too.

Maybe having a public video diary wasn’t the smartest thing when you were a semi-closeted boy desperately in love with a future NHL player, but, well. It’s not like he was very popular. Small blessings, he supposed.

 

* * *

 

Bitty was so hungry he couldn’t think. But if he got up to get a snack then he’d be putting off this paper even  _ more _ and he’d probably get distracted and bake a pie or play Mario Kart with Holster or go jogging with Jack and he just  _ needed. To. Focus. _

His stomach ached dully, the pain of it creeping up between his ribs. Quietly, a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Jack catalogued everything he’d eaten recently: a cup of coffee this morning, an apple at lunch, a couple bites of chicken at dinner- no, that had been the night before. He’d skipped dinner tonight, opting to bake a cobbler for the boys instead. Maybe he  _ did  _  need to eat.

The dining hall was closed by now, and Bitty didn’t really want to cook. He didn’t want to walk anywhere, either, or ask someone to drive him. Maybe he could break into Jack’s protein bar stash, even if they tasted like sawdust.

Jack’s door was open, Jack himself lounging on his bed with a book. Bitty rapped on the doorframe, feeling warm all over when Jack looked up and smiled.

“I missed dinner,” Bitty said. “Could I steal a protein bar from you?”

Jack frowned. “That’s not a good dinner, Bittle.”

Bitty shrugged. “Don’t really feel up to cooking and I need to finish this paper.”

When Jack stood, Bitty hoped he was moving to grab a bar and let Bitty get back to his work. Instead, Jack walked straight towards him, eyes narrowed and examining.

“I’m pretty hungry, too,” Jack said, to Bitty’s surprise. “You want an omelet?”

“Um.” Bitty wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Jack cook - mixing protein shakes and making PB&Js didn’t count - and part of him was  _ very curious _ . “Sure? I mean, yes, that sounds nice. Thank you.”

Even before Jack began cooking an unspoken “eat more protein” joke hung in the air between them. Bitty laughed to himself, and by the smirk on Jack’s face it was obvious he was thinking it too. It was funny how close they’d gotten in the past few months, that they could share a joke without speaking.

Jack, it turned out, wasn’t all that bad at cooking. Of course, Bitty was a bit of a backseat driver in the kitchen, casually mentioning the leftover sausages and peppers in the fridge when he saw that Jack was going for a... _ simpler _ recipe. It was fun, the two of them cooking together, bordering on domestic.

“I got this, Bittle,” Jack said gruffly as Bitty tried to show him the proper way to chop onions. “Go sit down.”

Bitty sat at the kitchen table with a dramatic huff, but he was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. No one outside of his family had ever cooked for him like this. It was nice.

At least, it  _ was _ , until Bitty remembered the reason he hadn’t wanted a full meal in the first place. Anxiety crept into his stomach, and he thought of how little of his paper was written, the paper that was due  _ tomorrow _ , that he should’ve started  _ weeks ago _ . He wasn’t very hungry anymore.

Jack looked over at him, hands still working on the omelets that cooked in the pan, and frowned. “Bittle, are you feeling okay?” He asked, turning more to face Bitty.

“Um, yeah.” Bitty flashed a smile, purposefully unclenched his shoulders. It was a routine he knew well. “Just mad at myself for not having more of my paper done, I guess.”

Jack nodded and finished cooking in silence. Bitty focused on breathing, on singing something in his head, on the beat of that new Sia song he’d listened to earlier,  _ 5-6-7-8- _

A plate was set in front of Bitty, steaming a little. The smell was heavenly, though Bitty might’ve been a bit biased. Jack sat down across from him, digging into his own omelet immediately.

Bitty scooped up a small piece of egg with the edge of his fork and brought it to his mouth, almost cautious. His stomach was making embarrassing noises, and  _ Lord _ he was hungry. Jack paused, mouth full, watching.

The egg was runny and the vegetables were too raw and there certainly wasn’t enough cheese, but it was hot and filling and - most importantly - it had been made  _ for _ Bitty,  _ by  _ Jack. Bitty ate the entire thing so fast he thought he might puke. He felt warmer, calmer, and Jack’s smile was almost blinding.

* * *

  
  


“I have work to do- yes, Coach, actual work, not baking- no, sir. Yes, sir.  _ Yessir _ . Tell Mother I lo- Alright. Bye.”

As per usual, his monthly call with Coach hadn’t been fun. Coach never actively  _ tried _ to be a dick, but clearly it came naturally to him. He stubbornly refused to believe that Bitty  _ wasn’t _ capable of being the macho, football-playing,  _ straight _ , country-boy son of his dreams, and sometimes Bitty wondered if playing an aggressive, contact sport like hockey hadn’t just made things worse for him. Coach wanted to know why he hadn’t bulked up, why he hadn’t grown six inches overnight, why he hadn’t started in the last game, why he was willing to try hockey but not football, why he wasn’t  _ exactly like Coach in every way- _

Bitty started to cry, frustration and shame reaching a boiling point in him, and somehow that made everything worse. He could hear Coach now, telling him to man up and stop acting like a little girl. He was sure Shitty would have something witty and sharp to say in response to that, something that would defend both Bitty’s masculinity and little girls in general, but it’s not like Coach would listen. It’s not like he  _ ever _ listened...

“Bitty?”

Dex stood in the doorway, the door pushed open only halfway. The light that spilled in from the hallway was almost blinding.

“Hey. You need something?” Bitty wiped at his eyes, forcing a bright smile. Dex looked uncomfortable and entirely unconvinced.

“I was gonna ask- never mind,” Dex mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, of course,” Bitty said, sitting up against his pillow. “What did you want to talk about?”

Dex looked like he wanted to argue, but instead sighed and said, “I, um. I wanted to ask you...about when-” He stuttered for a moment and fell silent.

Even in the dark of his room, Bitty could see Dex’s face turn a deep shade of red. Frowning a little, Bitty scooted to the side and patted the space next to him on the bed. Tentatively, Dex sat down.

For a moment they didn’t speak. Dex picked up Senor Bun and smiled softly, playing with the ears a little. Bitty pulled his knees to his chest and waited, watching Dex from the corner of his eye.

“How did you know you were gay?” Dex finally asked, voice almost a whisper. He didn’t look at Bitty, eyes trained on Senor Bun.

“Oh.” Bitty sighed, the pain in his chest reappearing. “Um. Well, that’s a complicated question.”

“Sorry,” Dex said. “You don’t- that’s a personal question, I shouldn’t have asked-”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Bitty touched Dex’s arm lightly. “When did I first know I was attracted to men? I was five or six and I was obsessed with Luke Skywalker.” He chuckled a little at the memory. “I know I should be a Han boy - it  _ is _ Harrison Ford - but there was something about Mark Hamill in all black in Return of the Jedi that just sent my little, baby heart a-flutterin’.”

Dex laughed as Bitty held a hand to his heart dramatically. “So you’ve pretty much always known?”

Bitty sighed and shook his head. “It’s not like they taught us about sexualities in Kindergarten,” he said. “I just thought he was handsome. Mama teased me about it a lot, thought I wanted to  _ be _ Luke. Coach got me a toy lightsaber that year for Christmas. It was nice, but I would’ve preferred an Easy-Bake Oven.”

Dex grimaced. “So when did you figure it out?”

Bitty wrung his hands together and cast his eyes down. “I think everyone else figured it out first. I resisted the idea of it for so long because I didn’t  _ want _ to be gay. I didn’t want those boys to be  _ right _ . I thought if I acknowledged it, then the bullying would get worse.” He shrugged. “I don’t think it would’ve made much of a difference, in hindsight.”

Dex frowned and reached out, clapping Bitty on the shoulder awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Eventually, it all came down to a boy. One of Coach’s players, J.R. Montgomery. He was tall and cute and always said hi when he saw me. I didn’t even realize I had a crush, until I had a...dream about him.” Bitty blushed. “It wasn’t even dirty, just...sweet. I woke up with that image of him kissing me and I just- I realized it’s what I wanted. And I was finally willing to admit that to myself.”

“I…” Dex fiddled with Senor Bun’s tail, a look of determination in his eyes. “I think I might be. Gay.”

Bitty smiled - genuinely - and laid his hand over Dex’s. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

Dex nodded. “I don’t know how my parents would take it. They’re...but they love me.” He sighed. “I honestly have no idea how they’d react.”

Bitty took a deep breath, willing the tears away, and said, “You don’t have to tell them, not yet. Really, not ever, if you don’t want to. Take all the time you need.”

“How did your parents react?” Dex asked, looking at Bitty for the first time. When he noticed the tears on Bitty’s cheeks, he cursed softly and said, “Shit, I mean, don’t answer that, I’m sorry-”

“It’s fine, Dex,” Bitty said, sniffling. “I just got off the phone with my dad, he ain’t the most...compassionate person, is all. Just givin’ me the same ol’ shit, ‘bout grades and hocke - oh and trying to talk to me ‘bout  _ girls _ .” Bitty shook his head. “So, to answer your question, I haven’t told ‘em. Just doesn’t seem worth it, really. I don’t think they’d disown me or anything, but...”

Dex sighed. “ _ But _ .” It wasn’t a question; just an acknowledgement. He understood. “Do you...shit, you were in here to be alone, weren’t you? God, I’ll just leave, I’m so sorry, Bitty.”

Bitty gave a watery laugh. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Stay, really. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’re crying.” But Dex stayed, shooting Bitty a worried look. “Do you need a hug? Because I can go get Chowder, he’ll hug the shit out of you.”

“Not a hugging man, Mr. Poindexter?” Bitty asked with a grin. Dex turned red again, to Bitty’s delight.

“Is there hugging going on?” Nursey poked his head into the room. “Man, it’s dark in here.”

“Maybe Nursey’ll hug me, if you won’t,” Bitty said, poking Dex in the ribs. Nursey laughed.

“Who wouldn’t hug you, Bits? You’re like a tiny little teddy bear.” Nursey climbed onto the bed, purposefully kneeing Dex in the stomach, to more or less collapse on top of Bitty.

“Oof!” Bitty shoved at Nursey until he rolled onto his side, head tucked under Bitty’s chin. “This isn’t hugging, this is squishing.”

“Bro, have you been crying?” Nursey pulled back to look at Bitty, then glared at Dex. “Dude, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Dex shot back, face still a little pink. “We were having a  _ private _ talk and then you just  _ waltzed _ in-”

“Hey, why’s everyone sitting in the dark?” Chowder strolled into the room. “Are we cuddling Bitty? Why are we cuddling Bitty?” He paused and frowned. “You shouldn’t argue on top of Bitty, that’s not fair to him.”

“Aw, sweetheart.” Bitty beamed up at Chowder. “You want to join us?”

Chowder’s face lit up and he scrambled across Dex to more or less lie curled up in Bitty’s lap. He wrapped his long, lanky arms around Bitty’s chest, legs sprawled across Dex.

“Why are we cuddling Bitty?” Chowder asked again. “Not that we need a reason, but  _ is _ there a reason?”

“He’s been crying,” Nursey said. “Dex upset him.”

“I did  _ not- _ ”

“Goodness,” Bitty said. “I’m fine, y’all. Just had a bad call home, that’s all.”

“Oh no!” Chowder tightened his grip on Bitty, snuggling in closer. Bitty stroked absentmindedly at Chowder’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest. These frogs were something else.

“So it wasn’t Dex?” Nursey asked, though Bitty could see he was smirking. Dex huffed and rolled his eyes.

“I wouldn’t make Bitty cry,” Dex said with a frown.

“Maybe not on  _ purpose _ ,” Nursey started, but Bitty threw a hand over his mouth.

“Shut up and cuddle or get out,” Bitty said. “Dex didn’t make me cry, my father did.”

The three frogs were stunned into silence for a moment, then they all scooted in closer in tandem. Even Dex squished himself up against Bitty’s arm and very tentatively took Bitty’s hand. Bitty closed his eyes and let the warmth and love of his friends wash over him, tears drying quickly on his cheeks. He smiled.

“Well fuck me sideways,” a voice said from the doorway. “You guys are fucking cute.”

Shitty leaned against the doorframe, grinning. Lardo stood behind him, snapping pictures on her phone.

“Look at the Frogs!” Ransom shouted, peering over Lardo’s shoulder. “Dogpiled on Bitty! Aww.”

“You mean  _ Frogpiled _ ?” Holster asked and Ransom laughed. They did some complicated handshake, and Holster accidentally smacked Lardo in the back of the head.

“What's going on?”

Jack appeared behind Shitty, hair mussed from his nap. His expression softened when he caught sight of the cuddle pile on Bitty’s bed.

“Frogpile, man,” Holster said, holding Lardo to his chest in apology for hitting her. She punched him in the ribs until he let go. “It's fucking adorable.”

“Bitty and his ducklings,” Ransom said, hand over his heart. “Lardo, I demand prints of those pics.”

“Duh,” Lardo said with a grin. “We’ll get ‘em framed.”

“We’re cheering Bitty up!” Chowder exclaimed, nuzzling up under Bitty’s chin. “His dad sucks!”

The others in the hallway frowned at this, the cheerful air dulling with the weight of reality. Luckily, Jack cleared his throat and said, “Well, what would cheer Bittle up more than pie?”

“What?” Nursey asked. “We can't ask him to make a pie right now.”

Jack sighed. Shitty grinned, catching on. “C’mon, ya little fuckers. Let's show Bits how good you are at not burning down his kitchen.”

Chowder jumped up at once, grinning madly. “Yes! Bitty, what's your favorite kind of pie?”

“Oh, I really don't need-”

Lardo rolled her eyes. “Let's say peach. This isn’t up for argument, Bits,” she added with a knowing look.

“Peach for our Georgia peach!” Holster shouted.

“Our teeny - but  _ ripe _ \- Georgia peach!” Ransom added with a wink. Bitty buried his face in his hands.

“We need to google peach pie recipes, guys!” Chowder said, tugging at Nursey’s shoulder. “C’mon!”

Chowder dragged Nursey from the room, barreling past the others. Ransom and Holster followed them down the stairs, their peach innuendos getting more and more ridiculous. Lardo followed as soon as she heard something crash in the kitchen.

“Oh, Lord,” Bitty said. “Those two making a pie…”

Dex laughed. “I'll go supervise.” He clapped Bitty on the back and leaned in close to murmur, “Thank you, by the way.”

And then, to Bitty’s surprise, he hugged him tight. Bitty smiled into Dex’s shoulder, catching sight of Jack and Shitty in the doorway. Shits just cooed and said something about “giving him the warm fuzzies.” Jack gave them a curious, gentle smile.

Dex stood and left the room, shouting down the stairs for everyone to wait until a responsible adult was there before turning on the oven. Shitty slung an arm around his shoulder, somehow knowing what the frog needed without actually knowing, and they trooped down to the kitchen.

Jack stayed in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets.  

“You okay, Bittle?” He asked, studying Bitty’s face carefully. Bitty shrugged.

“I think I will be now.” He stood and walked to stand in front of Jack, arms crossed against his chest. “You didn’t have to make the boys bake for me.”

Jack smiled softly. “You deserve to let other people bake for you sometimes.” He paused, casting his eyes down, and added, “If you ever need to talk…”

Bitty’s heart warmed, and he said, “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack looked back up at him, his gaze intense but warm. “We should probably make sure the Frogs don’t set your kitchen on fire, eh?”

“Lord help them if they do,” Bitty said primly, but smiled when Jack led them down the stairs to the kitchen.

Several hours, multiple flour fights, and one close call with Nursey and several glass bowls later and the kitchen air was thick and and warm with the smell of fresh peach pie. Bitty was forced into a kitchen chair and presented with the first piece, still steaming a little on the plate.

It was not the most expertly-crafted pie Bitty had ever tasted, nor the tastiest, but so much love had gone into its making that Bitty nearly cried as he swallowed the first bite. Here was, sitting at a cramped kitchen table, surrounded by people who cared about him - all of him, as he was.

“This is amazing,” he barely choked out, looking up at the Frogs. “Thank y’all, so much.”

“Anything for you, Bits,” Nursey said with a shrug.

Chowder nodded vehemently. “We just want to make you proud, Bitty! You really like it?”

“I do.” Bitty looked around the room, heart swelling. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such good friends as all y’all, but I’m so, so lucky.”

Dex looked down at his feet, face bright red. “You would’ve done the same for any of us.”

“We love you, Bits,” Lardo said. “So fuck your parents or whoever. We’re your family now. And family doesn’t make family cry.”

“A-fucking-men,” Shitty said, slinging an arm around Lardo’s shoulder. He’d grabbed a beer from the fridge, and held it in the air, already half-drunk. “A toast! To Bitty Bits Bittle,” he said, shaking the can. “Our favorite pie maker and ‘sawesomest of bros. Bitty!”

Everyone else held up what they could - a glass of water, a dirty whisk, an egg carton - and toasted. “To Bitty!”

“ _ Y’all _ ,” Bitty cried, hands over his heart.

“C’mon, Bits,” Ransom said, slapping him on the back. “Line your stomach with some  _ delicious _ pie-”

“-’Cause we’re throwing a kegster!” Holster finished, ruffling Bitty’s hair. “If some frogs are looking for dibs, they’d definitely earn some brownie points bringing up a keg from the basement,” he added, casting his eyes over at Dex, Nursey, and Chowder.

“On it!” Chowder cried, scurrying for the door.

Dex rolled his eyes. “You guys aren’t even graduating for another year, why would we fight for your dibs  _ now _ \- hey!”

Nursey grabbed his arm and dragged him from the kitchen, shooting a finger gun at Bitty as he passed. Ransom and Holster went into full last-minute party-planning mode, muttering things about keg-to-college-student ratios, Excel spreadsheets, and togas. Shitty and Lardo disappeared, presumably to hotbox before things got wild, leaving Jack and Bitty alone in the kitchen.

Jack grabbed a small slice of pie from the tin and joined Bitty at the table, humming appreciatively as he began to eat. “This is pretty good,” he said, poking at a hunk of peach with his fork. “Not as good as yours, though.”

Bitty smiled, body feeling light and tingly with the praise, and scooped up another bite for himself. Together they demolished more than half of the pie, talking and laughing in the warmth of the kitchen, barely noticing as people started drifting into the hallway and music started blasting in the living room.

The only thing that could drag Bitty from that moment was a pair of d-men in togas, demanding that, as the guest of honor, he needed to do the first kegster of the night. But when Bitty was done Jack was still in the kitchen, waiting for him, dishes cleaned and drying on the rack.

If possible, Bitty’s heart would’ve burst from his chest. With a wide, uninhibited smile, Bitty picked up the conversation where’d they’d left off.

 

* * *

 

“DEETS!” Holster shouted the moment Ransom walked through the door. “DEETS, RANS. DON’T LEAVE ME HANGIN’.”

Ransom sighed heavily. “Holtzy, I  _ just _ finished my walk of shame-”

“Stride of pride, man,” Shitty interjected. “Nothin’ shameful about sweet, sweet love-making-”

“Gross, Shits, fuck off. I’m not spilling deets until I’ve had coffee, okay?”

Holster stormed into the kitchen, literally picking Bitty up under the armpits and moving him away from the coffee maker.

Bitty squawked. “Um,  _ excuse you _ .”

Holster turned to him, eyes wild and manic. “It’s for the deets, brah.”

Tutting, Bitty turned back to the lunch he was preparing for the team, all of whom were grossly hungover and  _ starving _ . “You and Ransom are  _ far _ too invested in each other’s personal lives.”

“Rude, Bits,” Ransom said as he entered the kitchen.

Holster grinned. “Don’t be a prude, Bits.”

“Hey, dude, that rhymed.”

“We could write children’s books.”

“I’m not a  _ prude _ ,” Bitty said, hands on his hips.

“What else rhymes with prude?”

“Um, let’s see. Prude, rude, dude, pooed-”

“Lewd,” Bitty muttered.

“Heh, good one. Food, Goud...a.”

“Weak.”

“Yeah, I know. Glued. Mood. Nude.”

Ransom and Holster exchanged gleeful looks. Bitty rolled his eyes and pulled the pan of bagel bites out of the oven.

“The rude prude,” Holster boomed dramatically to an invisible audience.  “Who’s never nude, makes us food and calls us lewd. Dude.”

“Bravo!” Ransom shouted, clapping wildly. “Encore! Encore!”

Bitty huffed. “Christ on a cupcake, I swear if you two don’t get out of my kitchen I’m gonna tell Jack who  _ really _ filled his stall with fifty bottles of maple syrup.”

“Those were  _ presents _ ,” Holster hissed. “For our beloved, incredibly Canadian captain.”

Ransom grimaced. “Bits, please, my mom sends me so  _ much _ , I don’t know what to do with it all.”

“Shoo, both of you,” Bitty said, waving his oven mitt at them threatenly. “Lunch’ll be ready soon. And Ransom, it’s almost 3, if you drink coffee now you’ll be up all night.”

They both muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Yes, Mom,” and scurried off.

Bitty felt a bit unsettled, but he was almost done with his pie filling and now that the bagel bites were out he could turn up the oven temperature. By the time the pie was ready to bake, Bitty was on edge.

Jack wandered into the kitchen, smiling when he saw Bitty. “Smells good, Bittle,” he said.

Bitty smiled back, feeling a little more at ease. “There’s extra strawberries by the sink if you’d like some. They’re not quite in season yet but they’ll make for a good pie.”

“Great, thanks.” Jack wandered over to pluck a strawberry from the colander. He took a bite, tongue darting out to catch straw juice from dripping from his lips, then gave Bitty a curious look. “You okay?” He asked.

Bitty shrugged. “Sure. But, can I ask you a question?” When Jack nodded he continued, “Where on  _ earth _ did the boys get the idea that I’m a prude, Mr. Zimmermann?” He slid the pie into the oven to avoid Jack’s eyes. “Just because I’m a  _ gentleman- _ ”

Jack shrugged. “You never share deets with the guys.”

Bitty rolled his eyes. “I don’t kiss and tell, nor do I need that sort of ego boost like Ransom and Holster do.”

“Still,” Jack said. “You never ask for deets, either.”

“You don’t do either of those things.” Bitty turned and plucked the mitts from his hands. “Even when Shitty barges into your room at  _ seven in the morning _ to ask - yes, I can hear every time he does that.”

“I’m the hockey robot,” Jack said with a wry grin. “They gave up on me ages ago.”

Bitty snorted. “I’m not a prude,” he grumbled.  

Jack shrugged and took a sip of his water. “You never initiate cellies. You never bring anyone home. I’m pretty sure you never go home with anyone either. I’ve never seen you shirtless outside of the locker room-”

Bitty huffed. “Because it’s  _ cold _ out, Jack. Normal people feel  _ cold _ in the winter!”

“-I’m not saying it’s a  _ bad _ thing to be a prude, no matter how much crap the guys give you,” Jack finished, crossing his arms over his chest. “But there’s no point in denying it either.”

This was getting weirdly personal, and Bitty wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but he didn’t like this kind of scrutiny into his private life, especially from  _ Jack _ . “Well, it’s not like I have a choice, now is it?”

“What are you talking about, Bittle?” Jack’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Of course you have a choice.”

“Not really, no.” Bitty turned to clean off the counter, dusting flour into the sink with his hand. “I’m not being a prude, I’m being  _ proper _ .”

Jack snorted. “This is hockey, Bitty,” he said. “No such thing as  _ proper _ . It wouldn’t kill you to slap Shitty’s ass some time.”

The mere  _ idea _ of trying that sort of casual intimacy with one of his teammates, even Shitty, even at Samwell, left Bitty’s mouth dry and chest tight. “I can’t  _ do _ that, Jack,” He huffed, a familiar prickling starting in his fingers. “I’m not like  _ y’all _ .”

“Bittle, you’re  _ one _ of us,” Jack said, brows furrowed. “Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t!” Bitty hadn’t meant to shout. Bitty was not aggressive, he did not yell or scream or fight. He snapped his mouth shut and looked away, heat building behind his eyes. “I’m not  _ allowed  _ to.”

The look of realization on Jack’s face was heartbreaking.

“Bitty,” he said, voice low and rough. “We’re not...you can…” Jack struggled to find words, so instead he stepped forward and very slowly wrapped his arms around Bitty’s shoulders.

Despite himself, Bitty pressed his face into Jack’s chest, breaths growing ragged and wet. He couldn’t cry on Jack, couldn’t show this kind of weakness, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t let himself be held by a boy, by a straight boy, by a straight jock he had  _ vile _ , inappropriate feelings for-

Bitty pushed away, wiping hurriedly at his eyes. “Um, sorry, I shouldn’t- I need to go- I have class and I’m sure you’re busy-”

He all but ran from the room, missing the shocked, sad look on Jack’s face. Bitty didn’t have class, nor did he bother grabbing his backpack or his jacket before stumbling out of the Haus in a haze of disgust and anger and helplessness.

There was still snow on the ground, melting in patches of murky, brown slush. Bitty ran, away from the Haus, away from campus. The streets just east of frat row held a small neighborhood, mostly home to professors and administration. Bitty sprinted past Professor Atley’s house, past all the white picket fences and colonial facades. He needed to leave, needed to be alone, away from everyone, from the world crushing in on him.

As he rounded the corner onto Mulberry Street, which backed up to the parking lot of Murder Stop n’ Shop, Bitty’s foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk and he fell face-first into the pavement. “ _ Shoot _ ,” he murmured, clutching at his face. He could feel where he’d skinned his cheek, could feel a hot stickiness under his fingers. Bitty stood shakily, hoisting himself up against a suburban that was parked by the curb. As he caught his breath, gripping the door handle for support, Bitty saw himself in the car window.

The sight of his reflection was jarring, to say the least. Bitty was thinner than he remembered, his clothes looser. His hair was windswept, cheeks and eyes red from crying, face bleeding,  shoulders hunched, skin sallow. He looked sickly.

But there was more to it - Bitty didn’t recognize himself. Or, rather, he couldn’t connect the person in the car window with the voice in his head. His limbs felt heavy and large and  _ in the way _ . All of this flesh and blood and bone was  _ his _ , his to control, his to use, but it couldn’t be, wasn’t, not really. That small, weak body surely wasn’t  _ him _ .

Bitty realized, in that moment, that he’d never really considered himself human before. He was the small kid on the football team, the only boy on the figure skating rink, the gay kid on the hockey team; his DNA was warped, melted in the hot, Georgia sun, and he’d been born...different. Not a person.

When the buzzing in his mind subsided, Bitty realized he was sitting on the curb next to the suburban and that it had gotten dark outside. He didn’t have his phone to check the time, but something tightened in his chest when he realized he’d probably been here for hours. The night was shockingly cold, now that feeling was returning to his hands and face. Bitty shivered and stood, wrapping his thin cardigan tightly around him.

He slowly made his way across the Stop n’ Shop parking lot, very purposefully ignoring the fact that  _ this _ was where the guy had gotten murdered that one time,  _ hence the name _ , and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard his name called.

“Hey, Eric, right?”

Camilla Collins was loading groceries into the trunk of her car, waving at him as he walked by. He smiled tentatively at her - they’d met at Winter Screw, when she’d been Jack’s date, but probably hadn’t exchanged more than five words the whole night. “Hey, Camilla. How are you?”

She gave him a funny look and closed the trunk of her car. “I’m fine. You?”

“Yeah, fine, too,” Bitty said, a little awkwardly. Fatigue was starting to settle into his bones and he was struggling to keep him smile from slipping.

Camilla stared at him for a moment, biting her lip, then finally said, “Is your phone off?”

“What?” Bitty frowned. “Um, no, but I left it at home…Why?”

She sighed and shook her head, looking almost relieved. “Your boys have been, um. Worried.”

Bitty sucked in a breath. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Camilla smiled softly at him. “Let me give you a ride home. You look tired.”

Bitty let her shepherd him into the passenger seat. The car had already been running, the heater on full blast to warm up the cabin, and Bitty realized just how cold he’d been. She pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto Bristol Street, murmuring something to Siri as she steered one-handed.

Bitty figured she was texting the team, so when she finished he asked, “Be honest -- how bad is it gonna be?”

Camilla laughed. “You know them better than I do. But even Larissa’s been texting me to ask if I’ve seen you, which means they’re all pretty worried.”

Bitty groaned and buried his head in his hands. “I just needed some air. And- shit. I was so rude to Jack, now I’m gonna have to bake him, like, a hundred apology pies.”

They turned onto Jason Street and Bitty felt anxiety swell up in his chest. The looming frats in the distance served only as a reminder that he was going to have to face his team and answer for his behavior.

Camilla pulled up in front of the Haus and gently took Bitty’s hand. “Eric,” she said, voice soft. “Jack and I  _ rarely _ talk. I didn’t even know he had my phone number or, like, knew how to text. The fact that I got out of practice and had two voicemails and seven texts from Jack Zimmermann asking if I’d seen his teammate  _ means _ something. He’s definitely not mad at you, whatever it is you think you did. He cares about you. They all do.”

Bitty nodded, throat tight, face hot. Camilla patted him once on the unscathed cheek, then nodded towards the Haus. “I’ve told ‘em I found you but they’ll want to see you in one piece. Don’t keep ‘em waiting too long.”

“Thanks,” Bitty said, climbing out of the car. “Seriously. For everything.”

Camilla waved him off, waiting by the curb until he was up the stairs and through the front door. He barely made it five feet into the Haus before someone was lifting him off the ground.

“BITS!” Holster shouted in his ear. “You’re okay!”

“BRO!” Ransom was hugging him from behind, squishing him in a D-Man sandwich. “Dude, we were so worried!”

“Is that Bitty?” He heard Shitty call. “Put that lil fucker down, it’s my turn!”

It felt like half the team was hugging him and slapping his back and ruffling his hair, but Bitty was too tired to mind. Lardo shoved Shitty out of the way to hug Bitty tightly, then loudly announced that the first Frog to bring her a damp towel for Bitty’s face would be exempt from giving her piggyback rides for the rest of the semester. Dex and Nursey were out of the room in a flash, throwing elbows and checking each other into walls.

“Someone call Jack,” Ransom said. “I don’t think he saw Camilla’s text.”

“I’ll call him!” Chowder volunteered, pulling out his phone. Bitty felt something twist in his gut.

“I need to start baking,” he murmured to Lardo, who rolled her eyes.

“Bits, please, let’s get you cleaned up before you even  _ think _ of going near that kitchen. You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“But everyone’s been so worried, I need to apologize, I need to make something-”

Lardo frowned at him. “Bits. You don’t have to apologize.”

Bitty’s retort was cut off by the slamming of the front door. Jack stood there, breathing hard, eyes wild. “Bittle!”

Bitty flinched reflexively and Lardo stepped in front of him, eyes narrowed. Jack noticed and they had one of their freaky, silent conversations. Jack’s shoulders slumped and his face softened. “Bittle,” he said again, voice gently. “You’re okay?”

Bitty nodded, sight growing cloudy with unshed tears. “Jack, I’m sorry-”

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

Jack took a step forward, tentative. Bitty clasped his hands together, if only to keep them from shaking. “No, honestly, Jack, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have freaked out like that, I shouldn’t’ve worried everyone-”

“No, I shouldn’t have pushed like that, I’m sorry, you were clearly upset-”

“Immovable Southern Hospitality meets Unstoppable Canadian Politeness,” Shitty murmured. “Science tells us that they’re either going to blow up or apologize to each other  _ forever _ .”

“I don’t think science tells us that at all,” Lardo said with a sigh. “C’mon, guys, let’s give them some space.”

The team filed out, until only Shitty remained, lingering in the doorway. He cast a worried look at Bitty, then at Jack, but finally left without a word.

“What did you tell them?” Bitty asked when they were alone. It was bad enough that he’d broken down in front of Jack that way, but for the entire team to know-

“That we’d had a big fight,” Jack replied quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “And that I’d upset you and you’d stormed out and you weren’t answering your phone-”

“I left it here,” Bitty said, rubbing the back of his neck. “On accident.”

Jack nodded. “That makes sense. But I imagined the worst, the one time you  _ weren’t _ glued to your phone…”

Bitty couldn’t help but huff indignantly. “Already back to chirping, Mr. Zimmermann,  _ really _ ?”

“C’mon, Bittle,” Jack said, motioning towards the hallway. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

They trooped up the stairs in silence, Bitty legs still a bit wobbly. Jack shepherded him into his room, then began rummaging through Bitty’s dresser. Bitty raised an eyebrow at him.

“Here, change into these so we can take a look at your knees,” Jack said, pulling out a pair of baggy sweatpants. “Is the first aid kit in your bathroom or mine?”

“Mine, I think,” Bitty said. “I’ll grab it when I change.”

Bitty all but ran back into the hallway, overwhelmed by the domesticity of the moment. He changed into the sweatpants quickly, grimacing as he peeled off his jeans. They were bloodstained and scraped up from the fall, but not entirely torn. He was hoping he'd be able to salvage them, and not lose perfectly nice clothing to this breakdown.

His knees were a bloody mess, skinned to hell like his cheek. Bitty busied himself with pulling the first aid kit out from under the sink, then hurried back to his room.

Jack was sitting on the edge of his bed when Bitty entered, playing with Señor Bunny’s ears. Bitty pulled out his desk chair to sit, but Jack motioned him over.

“Let me,” he said, voice low. “Don't want that to get infected.”

Bitty gave him a skeptical look but moved to sit on the bed, passing over the first aid kit.

“Jack, we get banged up worse in practice all the time, I think I can clean my own cuts.”

Jack ignored him and pulled out antiseptic and cotton pads. He wetted a pad and dutifully cleaned the scraps on Bitty’s knees. Bitty hissed and gritted his teeth at the sting.

“There was a lot of blood on your jeans,” Jack finally said. “And on your face. You fell hard.”

Bitty couldn't help but shudder as Jack rolled down the legs of his pajamas pants, calloused fingers skimming his inner thigh. Jack didn't seem to notice, concentrating on wetting a new pad.

Then he was holding Bitty’s face, one hand cupping his cheek, the other dabbing at the cut. Bitty sucked in a breath, both out of pain and surprise, and felt himself pressing into Jack’s palm. His hands were cracked and coarse from winter and use, but strong and warm against Bitty’s skin.

“My mom used to do this for me,” Jack said as he worked. “When I was really young. Sometimes she’d do it when I was older, too, just because she missed taking care of me.” He chuckled, an endearingly goofy smile on his face.

“Aw,” Bitty cooed, holding a hand to his heart. “Your mama sounds like a sweet lady.”

Jack smirked. “Only if she likes you. If she doesn’t, she’s a force to be reckoned with. You two would probably get along.”

Bitty laughed, heart skipping a beat as Jack pulled his hands away. Everything suddenly felt colder and he shivered.

Jack’s smile disappeared. “Shit, you must still be freezing. Here.” He pulled back the covers of Bitty’s bed and herded Bitty under them. “I’ll be right back.”

While he waited for Jack to return, Bitty opened up Twitter on his phone. There was something comforting in skimming through 140-character peeks into the lives of all these people around the world, strangers and relatives, celebrities and nobodies, all posting needle-thin fragments of themselves for the world to glimpse.

Jack came back as Bitty was shooting off some half-thought-out variation of #gotyourback. Bitty could tell he was holding back a chirp, the corners of his mouth twitching. Instead, he held up a lumpy, red balloon.

“What is that?” Bitty asked. “A whoopie cushion?”

“What? Bittle,” Jack looked to the balloon thing and back to Bitty, completely bewildered. “It’s a hot water bottle.”

“Oh.” Bitty had never seen one in person before; he’d honestly thought they were some artifact from a bygone era. “I didn’t realize people actually  _ used _ those.”

“I’ve been told I’m old-fashioned,” Jack said with a small smile. “And that I come from an arctic wasteland. Here, this’ll warm you up.” He lifted up the covers and placed the hot water bottle underneath, close to Bitty’s chest. Heat radiated from it, and Bitty let out a contented sigh.

“Oh, I see the appeal now,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m never leaving bed again.”

Jack smiled at him, soft and sweet, and straightened up. “Get some rest, Bittle, it’s been a day.”

Bitty’s eyes sprang open and another wave of guilt rushed over him. He reached out and grabbed Jack’s wrist, keeping him from leaving. “I’m  _ so  _ sorry about today-”

Jack shook his head and cut him off. “Let’s not start the apology game again.  _ I’m _ sorry for triggering you, I didn’t mean to pry. But know that I’m here, if you need to...talk.”

Bitty was touched. Jack wasn’t great at talking in general - though Bitty had found that, once comfortable, Jack was pretty easy to talk to - and with everything  _ he’d _ been through, it probably wasn’t easy for him to counsel others.

It did, however, make him the most qualified person to talk to in Bitty’s book.

“Thanks, Jack,” he whispered, pulling his hand away.

Jack patted him on the shoulder. “Rest up, Bittle. No checking practice tomorrow, but you still want to get Annie’s? 7:30?”

“Mmm.” Bitty yawned and burrowed further under his covers. “Yes, please.”

“Alright, it’s a date,” Jack said, and left before he could see the faint blush creeping across Bitty’s face.

“A date,” Bitty whispered to himself. “Lord, can you  _ imagine _ ?”

* * *

  
  


As the weather got warmer, Shitty more or less lived out in the reading room.  It was fun, most days, to be able to hear Shitty and Lardo chatting as Bitty packed his bag for class, or to listen to Shitty’s music in the evenings when Bitty was studying on his bed.

It was a little less nice when Bitty just wanted to escape out to the roof. It’d been a really crappy day - he’d gotten a C on a paper, fainted during his morning checking practice with Jack, and gotten into a fight with Holster for moving his Gatorade to the basement fridge - and, as much as he loved Shitty, he was really in the mood to chit chat.

“Bits, my bro,” Shitty said as Bitty climbed onto the roof. He waved to the twelve pack at his feet. “Beer? I’ve got a-plenty to share.”

Bitty’s first class on Fridays didn’t start until noon, so he nodded. “Please. It’s been a day.”

Shitty plucked a Keystone from the box and tossed it to Bitty.

“Sit, my child,” Shitty said, patting the roof next to him. “Tell Uncle Shitty about your day.”

Bitty popped the tab of his can and took a sip. It was lukewarm but fizzed nicely on his tongue. “You’re really creepy sometimes, you know that?”

Shitty laughed. “Lardo tells me that at least once a week, bro. Now, Bitty Bits, tell me what’s on your mind. This is a safe space.” He motioned around to the reading room.

Bitty snorted. “The Haus is practically condemned and the roof was never meant to hold a bunch of hockey players - there is literally nothing safe about this space.”

“Okay, fair,” Shitty said, taking a sip of his own beer. “A judgement-free zone, then?”

“Sure, sure.” Bitty pulled his knees to his chest, watching as a few LAX players stumbled around in their yard, red solo cups in hand. “Just been a crappy day, y’know.”

Shitty hummed and nodded but didn’t press. Shitty was a brash person - he tended to speak without thinking and would literally fight anyone who disagreed with him on anything - but he seemed to  _ get  _ Bitty in a way few people ever had. He didn’t push Bitty to talk about anything and was the only person in the Haus to realize Bitty didn’t enjoy being manhandled. They sipped on their beer in silence for a few minutes, until Shitty began to speak.

“I’m freaked the fuck out about law school,” he said, far more casually than warranted. “Like...I know it’s gonna be hard and shit, so much fucking studying, but I’m good at that, I know what to expect there. I’m just…” He took a long swig of his drink and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m afraid of becoming my father, y’know?”

Bitty knew he was gaping a little, but he just wasn’t sure how to respond. “Shits, I think...I think if you’re so afraid of it happening, it probably won’t.”

Shitty shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. It had gotten so long, and Bitty wondered if he was going to give it and cut it for graduation. “I just. I know I’m, like, uber privileged. Rich, straight, white dude, Andover grad, soon-to-be  _ Samwell _ grad, soon-to-be  _ Harvard _ student...and I know I forget that sometimes.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “Lardo makes me put a dollar in the sin bin every time I man-splain something to her.” The smile faltered, and he looked away. “I’m just afraid that being there, at my father’s alma mater surrounded by people like me...I’m afraid I’m gonna lose myself. I was a piece of shit when I got to Samwell, though I  _ thought _ I was all progressive and crap...I believed all this bullshit I’d been fed my entire life about class and race and...and sexuality.”

Bitty had never, ever seen Shitty look ashamed in the two years they’d been friends. A small, curious part of him wanted know just what high school Shitty thought about the gays, but decided against asking.

Slowly, tentatively, Bitty scooted closer, until he was leaning up against Shitty’s arm. “Shitty, there  _ are _ no other people like you.”

Shitty chuckled at that and wrapped an arm around Bitty’s shoulders. He smelled heavily of cheap beer and weed, but it was so incredibly  _ Shitty _ that it calmed Bitty’s nerves.

“You know what I mean,” he said softly. “And really- mostly- fuck, man. I’m gonna miss you guys. I wish I could just pack you and Jack and Lardo up in my luggage and take you to Cambridge with me.”

Bitty grinned up at him. “Pay for my rent and I’d consider it.”

Shitty laughed, a little too loudly, but his whole body loosened and he tugged Bitty closer. “Man, Bits, I’m gonna fuckin’ miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, Shitty,” Bitty murmured, resting his head against Shitty’s chest. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you and Jack.”

Just as Shitty started making obnoxious cooing noises - “ _ Awwww, Bitty you lo-o-ove us! _ ” - Bitty’s stomach rumbled loudly.

Shitty frowned. “Bits, what have I told you about drinking on an empty stomach?”

Bitty looked away. “I wasn’t hungry today.”

“Bitty, my man, my bro, you’ve  _ gotta _ line your stomach-”

“Oh, hey, guys.”

Jack leaned out of his bedroom window, eyeing them with amusement. “You guys look comfy.”

“Jack!” Shitty motioned for him to join them. “Tell Bitty not to drink on an empty stomach.”

Jack’s smile faded. “Bittle, when was the last time you ate?”

Bitty huffed in exasperation. “Both of y’all need to chill out or I’m locking you out here and taking the beer with me.”

Still frowning, Jack climbed across the roof and sat down next to Bitty, snagging one of the lukewarm beers from the box. “Do you want me to make you something? Eggs? Grilled cheese?”

Bitty knew he was blushing and simply shook his head, not trusting his voice to not give away his feelings. Shitty, on the other hand, shouted, “Why don’t you ever cook for  _ me _ ?”

“Bittle,” Jack murmured.

“I’m fine, Jack.” Bitty looked down at his knees, biting his lip to keep from telling the boys off for mothering him.

“Why don’t you love me like you love Bitty?” Shitty was still ranting, reaching around Bitty to smack Jack’s arm.

“Shut up, Shits,” Jack said. “Bittle, you’re going to get alcohol poisoning.”

“Season’s over, Jack,” Bitty snapped. “You’re not the boss of me anymore.”

Just a year ago, Jack probably would’ve yelled at him or stormed off or  _ something _ . Now, though, he looked a little hurt, but mostly concerned. Even Shitty had stopped talking, surprise apparent on his face.

“Bittle,” Jack said softly. “Please.”

The silence on the roof was overwhelming. Shitty, for the first time since Bitty had met him, was speechless, and seemed utterly confused by it. Jack’s gaze was soft but unwavering and Bitty had to look away. He trusted Jack and Shitty, but he’d never...he’d never vocalized his eating  _ thing _ before. Part of him was afraid that saying it out loud would make him realize how stupid it was. Another, smaller part of him feared that Jack would judge him, or, worse,  _ pity _ him. But Jack had his share of issues, had shown Bitty glimpses of his more vulnerable self.

Mostly...mostly Bitty didn’t want to admit he had a problem. If other people knew, they’d tried to fix it, fix  _ him _ , and they’d be so disappointed when they realized he was just  _ broken _ , that he’d been born  _ broken _ .

“Sometimes I get mad at myself,” Bitty said eventually, voice hushed. Jack and Shitty both sat a little straighter. “And I- I guess I don’t feel like I deserve anything I want when I get that way.”

Bitty could almost see Jack thinking back to team breakfasts after their rougher checking practices, the way Bitty had poked and prodded at his food, never really eating.

“You...that includes  _ food _ ?” Shitty managed to keep most of the incredulity out of his voice, but it showed on his face. “Bits, that’s-”

To his surprise, Jack held up a hand to cut Shitty off. He nodded at Bitty, as if to say  _ go on _ .

Bitty took a deep breath, voice shaking a little as he continued. “I’ve been ashamed of who I am my entire life. I’ve always been too small, too feminine, too loud, too sensitive.” He laughed a little as tears welled in his eyes. “I sucked at football and skated around in spandex and sequins - I was my father’s worst nightmare. I’m a terrible student and I’m lazy and I procrastinate so  _ much _ . I was good at hockey until I came here and then I couldn’t take a check and-”

“ _ Bits _ .” Shitty was resting his cheek against Bitty’s head, his thumb rubbing small circles into Bitty’s back. “Bitty.”

Bitty swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I...I hate my body, but it’s the one thing about me that I can control. That I can change.”

“Bitty, you don’t need to change,” Shitty murmured. “You’re perfect, you- you’e  _ you _ .”

“That’s not true,” Bitty whispered. “I’ve been hated for being me my entire life.  _ I _ hate me for being me.”

Shitty was saying something else, something about how expectations and small-minded people could all go fuck themselves, but he was distracted by the way Jack was studying him, like he was finally figuring out a puzzle.

Bitty tapped the lip of his can and took another sip, ignoring the protests from Shitty. Now that he was talking about this, it felt like he couldn’t stop.

“Once I hugged my friend Tim in the hallway in sixth grade and all these boys laughed and called us gay,” Bitty said, words spilling from his mouth. “Tim wouldn’t talk to me for weeks after that, and a lot of the other boys stop inviting me to sleepovers. They didn’t want to ‘catch the gay.’”

Another sip. Another breath.

“I tapped one of my daddy’s boys, Walker Dempsey, on the arm once in the locker room to ask him a question and he just- he  _ flinched away _ like I was some sort of monster.” The can, mostly empty, crumpled in his fist. “It wasn’t even a surprise, he  _ knew _ I was there. The way those boys looked at me, like I was gonna start humping them like a dog or something.”

“ _ Bits _ .” Shitty had his other arm across Bitty’s chest now, squeezing tight, Bitty’s head tucked under his chin. For once, he had nothing wise or comforting to say, so he just held Bitty close.

“I’m sorry,” Jack murmured, drawing his knees to his chest. “I’m sorry they treated you like that. I’m sorry you feel this way.”

Bitty shrugged, the edges of the crushed beer can digging into his palm. “It’s not...it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big-?” Shitty started, but Jack cut him off.

“Why do you say that?” He asked quietly. Bitty shrugged again.

“I mean, it could be worse. My parents could’ve disowned me or the bullies at school could’ve beaten me to death. I’m not suicidal, I have friends now, I have you guys…” Bitty smiled weakly. “I’m pretty lucky, all things considered. I shouldn’t be ungrateful. I shouldn’t...I shouldn’t feel this way.”

Jack smiled at him sadly. “Your feelings are still valid, Bittle. I know that’s hard to accept sometimes…” He exchanged a look with Shitty, and though Bitty couldn’t see Shitty’s face he could guess that he was giving Jack a  _ what have I always told you _ look. “But you’re allowed to feel this way. You don’t have to be happy all of the time.”

Bitty felt a stray tear fall down his cheek, and he wiped at it hastily. Jack scooted a little closer and grasped his shoulder with one large, warm hand, squeezing tightly.

“I know that may be...ironic, coming from me,” Jack added with a sheepish grin. “But it’s true. Hard to remember, sometimes, but true.”

“We love you, Bits,” Shitty muttered close to his ear. “All of us, so much.” He pressed a soft kiss to Bitty’s temple, and a few more tears escaped Bitty’s eyes. He hated crying, hated crying in front of other people, but right now, with his friends, he didn’t feel weak at all.

“I love y’all, too,” Bitty said softly, smiling timidly at Jack. “Thanks.”

The three of them sat there for a while, huddled together on the roof with half a box of beer slowly getting warmer in the early summer night. Jack didn’t move his hand from Bitty’s shoulder rubbing and kneading the muscles there until Bitty drooped back, boneless, against Shitty. The air was thick and muggy, hinting of rain, and the stars above them faded as clouds slowly rolled in.

“Well, I don’t know about you two,” Shitty said at last, stretching his arms above his head. “But all this grade-A heart-to-heartin’ has me  _ starved _ . Who wants pizza?”

Jack raised an eyebrow at him. “Can we get Hawaiian?”

Shitty protested, making retching noises, but when Bitty whispered, “Hawaiian sounds good,” he stopped.

“Okay,” Shitty said, pulling out his phone to speed-dial the pizza place. “But we’re getting hot wings, too, and no one gets to say anything when I get buffalo sauce in my ‘stache, got it?”

Later, Jack and Shitty ate their weight in crappy pizza and wings, tossing the chicken bones off the roof at LAX bros who got a little too close to the Haus. Bitty managed a slice and a half, but he was laughing too hard the rest of the night to even notice how full he felt.

 

* * *

 

If he were someone braver, someone who felt entitled to seeking out love - someone straight, perhaps - Bitty would have told Jack how he felt. It didn’t even matter to him that Jack clearly wasn’t interested, wouldn’t reciprocate. The secret burned inside of him, built a barrier between their friendship, kept Bitty from moving on with his life, and were he anyone else, he’d confess right there on the banks of the river. They were saying goodbye anyway - it was his last shot.

But Bitty knew it was a bad idea, knew that it would only hurt when Jack rejected him, would only cause Jack guilt and anxiety to know how Bitty pined. And Bitty wasn’t born yesterday; even the most open-minded of straight boys could turn ugly when they felt targeted by a gay man.

When Jack leaned down to hug him, Bitty couldn’t help but cling tight and let himself have that brief moment of intimacy. Jack’s body was warm and solid against his, and there was something comforting in the gentle way Jack’s hands ghosted down Bitty’s back. As Bitty pulled away he straightened Jack’s tie - a shade of blue that matched his eyes - a confession on the tip of his tongue.

But he chickened out, as he always did, and walked away from Jack knowing things would never be the same again. Jack would go on to the NHL, would finally live his dream with the team he always deserved, and Bitty would remain at Samwell, lonely and uncertain.

He held back tears as he walked to the Haus, but it was hard as he trudged up the porch steps. Everything was a reminder.  _ There  _ was the reading room above him, where he and Jack had spent several sleepless nights talking, just the two of them.  _ There  _ was the corner of the living room where Jack had asked to take a selfie before Parse showed up.  And  _ there _ was the kitchen counter where they’d baked together for class, where Bitty realized he was in love with Jack. With a heavy, wet sigh, Bitty ducked into his room, casting his eyes away from the room across the hall.

Once he finished changing and packing, Bitty itched to keep moving. The shuttle wouldn’t be here for another half hour, but he’d already cleaned his room top-to-bottom. Ransom and Holster had already headed out on their road trip, Lardo was at lunch with the Knights, and Chowder had flown home on Thursday. Bitty knew he hadn’t unpacked his stuff, just dumped most of his boxes in the basement and left a few in Jack’s now-empty room. With a sigh, Bitty grabbed his iPod and shuffled across the hall, knowing full-well that Chowder had shoved all of his clothes into the boxes without folding them.

If it would keep him from sinking too deep into this melancholy, Bitty would fold  _ all _ the clothes left in the Haus.

Jack’s --  _ Chowder’s _ \-- room, though bare, smelled of Jack, his Old Spice deodorant and unwashed gym clothes and whatever cheap cologne he put on for the graduation ceremony today. Bitty felt tears welling up in his eyes, so he went to work folding and refolding Chowder’s disturbing number of Sharks sweatshirts.

Bitty hated crying, hated that loss of control, his body turning against him and acting of its own accord. He could feel his chest tighten, his eyes burn, his throat restrict, and he could do nothing to stop it.

Then  _ Halo _ came on shuffle and Bitty broke down completely.

It must’ve looked pretty pathetic, standing in Jack’s old room, sobbing to Beyonce and folding his teammate’s clothing. But everything about today was pathetic, so Bitty let himself be sad in the privacy of this moment.

It was Queen Bey, so of course he was singing along, no matter how constricted his throat was, no matter how runny his nose was. “Remember those walls I-”

He sniffed, straightening out the wrinkles in Chowder’s hoodie. “-even put up a-” His lips trembled. “Didn’t m-make-”

His voice was no louder than a whisper, and Bitty scrubbed at the tears on his face. What he wouldn’t give to sink into the floorboards, become a ghost in the attic and have nothing ever change in the Haus, be forever in the one place he’d ever found acceptance, ever found love…

He took a breath as the chorus started and willed the tears away. He was being melodramatic. The shuttle would be at the Haus soon and he didn’t want to ride all the way to Logan with puffy eyes and sticky cheeks. Maybe he could get Shitty to talk Jack into Skyping with them this summer. Or maybe the distance would be good, help him get over his  _ stupid _ crush. He hummed as the chorus revved up, wishing he had the heart to dance his sorrows away. “I can feel your-”

“ _ Bittle _ .”

“Hello-!” Bitty whipped around, heart pounding, to find Jack standing there, panting and wind-swept. Had he  _ run across campus _ ? “Jack?”

Jack said nothing, but his gaze was locked intently on Bitty, mouth half-open like he was trying to find words and coming up short. Was someone hurt? Was there an emergency? Had - and he shuddered to think this - Lardo and Shitty broken up? As much as any couple who wasn’t  _ really _ together could break up? Or had they gotten together? Or maybe Holster and Ransom and gotten into a car wreck, or Chowder was in trouble all the way in California, or-

“Oh, my goodness,” Bitty breathed, pulling out his earbuds. “Why are -- is everything alright? You’re outta breath! You could have texted-”

“Bitty.”

And Bitty couldn’t remember the last time Jack had used his nickname. Something was wrong. Or something was  _ right _ ? He stopped rambling and waited, barely able to breathe for anticipation.

Jack leaned in, and Bitty could feel his warmth again, and smell his cologne and sweat from sprinting across campus in black graduation robes, and hear his ragged breathing, could  _ feel _ his ragged breathing, their faces only inches apart, and-

_ And Jack kissed him _ .

Bitty’s body moved on its own, surging up against Jack like a plant reaching for sunlight. He planted his palms flat against Jack’s chest for balance, fingers digging into the stiff fabric of the button-down. Jack pulled back, just for a moment, then brought their mouths together again, one hand cradling Bitty’s cheek, the other settling at Bitty’s waist.

It was so much, being so close to Jack, being enveloped by his  _ everything _ \- but Bitty pushed up, standing on his tip-toes, deepening the kiss.

Bitty had never kissed someone as large as Jack, had never felt so totally encompassed by a single person. Jack’s lips were softer than Bitty imagined they would be, his almost non-existent stubble scraping pleasantly against Bitty’s chin and cheek, and he smelled so strongly of sweat and cologne and the overheated polyester of his graduation robes.

Everything was warm - hot, even. The Haus, closed up for the summer, was stuffy, growing stuffier as sunlight shone through the windows of Chowder’s room. Jack was warm, was always warm, with his hot, Canadian blood and huge body and timid smile - not blindingly sunny, like Chowder’s or Ransom’s, but flickering and powerful, like a roaring fireplace in the dead of winter.

It was a smile to come home to. It was a smile that was home.

Jack was not smiling now, but there was still that heat to him, that fire beneath the surface, that burning passion that drew Bitty in like a moth to a flame. Bitty thought he could burn up like this, kissing Jack so desperately, colliding after months of pining and uncertainty and doubt, combusting where he stood and crumbling into nothing but ash and blow away in the wind.

Jack pulled away, just for a second, and Bitty’s body surged upward to follow.

  
  


* * *

 

Everything about Jack felt large - his passion, his heart, his fears, his body,  _ Lord  _ was his body huge, warm and heavy against Bitty’s as they slept tangled in his sheets.

Bitty liked watching Jack sleep on the nights when it escaped him, liked watching the anxiety fade from Jack’s face, liked tracing the outline of Jack’s body with soft touches, all its swells and ridges and valleys, following the rivers of stretch marks and veins and dark, coarse hair.

Jack took up so much of the bed, filling it with his warmth and his scent and Bitty wanted to die this way, surrounded by the comforting  _ bigness  _ of Jack Zimmermann.

They did not live in a world where Bitty thought he’d ever feel safe, the way he had as a child in his mother’s arms where nothing could ever touch him. But here, with Jack, just the two of them, he felt  _ brave _ . He felt  _ strong. _

He felt loved.

* * *

 

 

“You want breakfast?” Jack asked, stretching his arms over his head as he pulled himself out of bed.

There was a coldness in Bitty’s gut, a numbness in his face, and he shook his head. “No, not hungry this morning.”

Jack frowned but didn’t push it. “Okay. I’ll make extra in case you change your mind.”

Bitty could smell as Jack started cooking omelets - a recipe he and Bitty had perfected together over the years - but his stomach churned as sadness settled over him. He couldn’t think of any reason he’d be feeling this way today: Coach hadn’t called recently; no reporters had asked Jack about having a girlfriend during his last interview; Bitty’s job as a digital marketing coordinator (AKA social media for minimum wage) for UNFI was going well; and his vlog was gaining in popularity. Bitty was happy with his life right now, but sometimes...sometimes these days just happened.

At least he could count on Jack to understand  _ that _ . The number of times Bitty had come down from Samwell to find Jack mid-panic attack was not insignificant, especially his first year with the Falconers. No one else ever understood how his mood could just turn so gray, so listless, when an hour before he’d been bubbly and chatting up a storm.

(Not that he ever let anyone see his sadness, except Jack, but his friends could be perceptive when they felt like it, especially Shitty and Lardo.)

Eventually, Bitty pulled himself from the bed and trudged into the kitchen. His sweatpants pooled at his feet, and it took Bitty a few minutes to realize that they were actually Jack’s. Normally the thought would make him giddy, but today he just felt tired.

With a sigh, Bitty sat at the table, watching Jack putter around the kitchen in just his boxers. Jack smiled at him, but there was concern in his eyes. He scooped an omelet from the pan onto a plate and set it on the table.

“Hey, please,” Jack said, pushing the plate towards Bitty. It only held maybe one egg’s worth of omelet, with very little ham or veggies or cheese. It was plain, bland, and Bitty knew Jack had made it that way on purpose. “I know it’s one of those days but could you try and eat a little protein?”

Bitty smiled weakly up at Jack and nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

He took a small bite, barely tasting it, but the egg was spongy and warm and Bitty managed to swallow it down. Jack walked around the back of his chair and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Bitty’s head.

“Thanks, Bits,” he murmured. “You know how I worry about you.”

Bitty turned a little in his chair to wrap an arm around Jack’s waist and held him there, warm against Bitty, while Bitty picked at the rest of the omelet. When he finally finished, Jack smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” He asked. “Or is it one of those days where you clean  _ everything _ ?”

Bitty huffed a small laugh. “Not sure yet. Do you wanna watch something with me while we have our coffee?”

“Well I do have some tape I need to review,” Jack deadpanned, moving to grab the two cups of coffee he’d left on the counter. Bitty snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Hardy har, Mr. Zimmermann,” he said, taking the mug Jack offered him and following his boyfriend to the living room. “Or we could watch something  _ fun _ .”

They ended up watching some sitcom on Netflix for a while, though Bitty didn’t pay too much attention once he’d finished his coffee. The minute he set the empty mug down on the coffee table, Jack was draping the afghan Moomaw had sent them around Bitty’s shoulders, tucking him in tight until he looked more or less like a giant burrito. He moved quickly around the living room, dimming the lights and turning down the volume on the TV. Then he just held Bitty, close and warm and tight, letting him drift off against his chest.

They spent the day like this, curled together watching mindless, cheerful TV. Every now and then Jack brought him little snacks, and though Bitty couldn’t manage to eat all of them, Jack still smiled when he at least took a bite.

Bitty didn’t snap out of his funk during the course of the day, but when Jack nodded off, cheek resting against Bitty’s head, Bitty felt something warm bloom in his chest. Every little piece of food, every little thing Jack did today -- all of it had been out of love and nothing else. Bitty let himself smile, just a little bit, and closed his eyes, falling asleep listening to the heartbeat of the man he loved.

 

* * *

 

Bitty hadn’t meant to look in the mirror at Jack’s apartment, but there were so  _ many _ of them, floor to ceiling in the master bathroom, that it was sort of inevitable.

His reflection didn’t always trigger him, but he was tired and Jack had been gone all day and work had been frustrating and he just...couldn’t handle it right now. His face looked so pinched, his arms and chest misshapen, his belly either concave or convex, it was hard to tell as he cast his eyes away-

“Hey.”

Jack sidled up behind Bitty, wrapping his arms around Bitty’s waist. He smelled of bar, beer and cigarette smoke, though Bitty knew he never drank much when he went out with the team. Jack paused as his lips met Bitty’s pulse point and pulled away, frowning. “Bits, are you okay?”

Bitty nodded jerkily, lips pressed tight together. He could breathe a little easier with Jack so close, but his hands still shook violently.

“I don't like looking in the mirror,” Bitty said, ashamed at how small his voice sounded. “It...it freaks me out. Makes me feel  _ wrong _ .”

Jack hummed and shifted so he was standing between Bitty and the mirror. “Want to talk about it?” He asked softly, pressing his lips to Bitty’s forehead. Bitty sighed and leaned into Jack’s embrace.

“It just...I don’t know. I’ve always felt...like I’m  _ not _ my body, you know? I’m too aware of it, all the time. And it freaks me, seeing myself in the mirror, realizing I’m this walking sack of- of- I don’t know,  _ human _ . I can’t really explain it,” he whispered, tightened his arms around Jack’s ribs.

Jack hummed in response. “Is it better now that you can’t see?”

“It helps,” Bitty said, letting Jack herd him towards the bedroom. “It helps being with you, too.”

Jack smiled sweetly, pecking Bitty’s cheek, then picked him up bridal-style, carrying him the rest of the way to the bed. The first time he’d done that, Bitty had shrieked with surprise, but after so long together he just curled against Jack’s chest, twining his arms around Jack’s neck.

Gently, Jack settled Bitty back against the pillows, then climbed onto the bed and held himself over Bitty, bracing an arm on either side of Bitty’s head. He kissed Bitty once, slow and soft, then pulled back to whisper, “I love your body.”

Bitty flushed and protested, but Jack shook his head, and continued.

“I love it because I get to hold it and kiss and just...be close. To it. To you.” He peppered kisses along Bitty’s jaw, down his neck, across his collarbone. “It keeps you alive. It keeps you with me.”

“Jack,” Bitty murmured, carding his fingers through Jack’s hair. Jack wasn’t much of a talker when they were in bed - that was Bitty’s forte - but when he did it was always so soft and sweet. Bitty shivered and bit his lip.

“I know this body  _ isn’t _ you, not really,” Jack said, fingers working at the buttons on Bitty’s shirt. As he peeled it away, he continued leaving a trail of kisses down Bitty’s chest, adding in the occasional nip that had Bitty gasping.”Like...it doesn’t define who you are, not- I mean, it sort of does, I know that, but it’s not...it’s not the important part of you. But it  _ holds _ you, you know? So I love it, so,  _ so _ much.”

He softly bit at Bitty’s hipbone and Bitty arched off the bed, laughing a little, flushed down to his collar. Jack grinned up the length of Bitty’s body at him, pressing a kiss to Bitty’s abdomen, nose nuzzling the dark blonde hairs of his happy trail. “And I  _ love _ when it does that.”

“Such a charmer,” Bitty said breathlessly. He had to admit, it was quite a sight, Jack pressing tender kisses to his pelvis, looking back at him with such adoration. Bitty smiled. “Now, get your butt back up here  _ right now _ .”

 

* * *

 

“It’s so weird, being back here,” Lardo said, nudging Bitty in the side. “It’s been, fuck, ten years?”

Bitty smiled. “To be completely honest, I’m surprised this place is still standing.”

“LARDS! BITS!” Shitty came barrelling out of the Haus to scoop them both up in a big hug. “Brahs, it’s been too long.”

“We got dinner a week ago,” Bitty reminded him.

“I live five blocks from you,” Lardo added with a huff.

Shitty hooked an arm around each of their shoulders and pulled them towards the steps. “You know I want to carry the both of you around in my pockets everywhere I go.”

The Haus was the same as it always had been, with a few notable distinctions: the smell of vanilla extract and butter had finally faded from the hallway, overtaken once again by beer and unwashed laundry; the nasty green couch had been reallocated to the backyard and replaced by an equally-disgusting brown sofa; there was an altar to Bitty’s husband over the TV.

“What in the deep-fried hell is  _ that _ ?” Bitty asked, gaping at the collage of posters and ESPN cutouts in awe and disgust.

“It’s our shrine, man,” someone said. Bitty turned and saw a few of the current residents - oh goodness they were so  _ young _ \- standing in the doorway. “To Zimmermann.”

“You know he went here, right?” Another asked Bitty, to Lardo’s amusement.

“He even lived in the Haus,” a third guy said proudly. “In  _ my _ room.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Bitty said, biting back a laugh.

Shitty grinned widely, which could only mean trouble. “Didn’t I hear he was coming by for the alumni event? That’s the only reason  _ I’m _ attending.”

“Chyeah!” First guy said. “I’m gonna ask him to sign my jersey.”

“I hope he’s on my team for the game later,” Guy #3 said.  “That would be ‘swawesome.”

“Oh, my God,” Bitty whispered to Lardo. “They still says ‘swawesome.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s  _ so _ 2015.”

“Hey, uh, Birdie, Hammer, um, and the other guy,” Shitty said, waving a hand at the bros. “Have Birkholtz and Oluransi stopped by yet?”

Birdie shrugged. “They said they were going to get some kegs, I think, but I’m not sure they were being serious. They left about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Those fuckers,” Shitty cursed. “Speaking of-” He turned to Bitty. “When’s that gorgeous fuckin’ hubby of yours getting here?”

Bitty checked his phone. “He had a meeting with Coach Hall, but he shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Bits.” Lardo tugged on his sleeve and nodded towards hallway. “Bits, you gotta make pie. For old time’s sake. If Rans and Holtzy are throwing a kegster-”

“I’m sure these gentlemen don’t want me rummaging around their kitchen,” Bitty said, shaking his head.

“Brah,” Shitty said, eyes wide. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you  _ not _ refer to the Haus kitchen as  _ your _ kitchen.”

Bitty shrugged and smiled a little sadly. “It’s not mine anymore. Besides, I have a shiny new one to play with that  _ doesn’t _ reek of ‘sriracha-marinated hot pockets.’”

The three bros watched the exchange carefully. Finally, Hammer asked, “Wait, dude, are you  _ Bitty _ ?”

Bitty looked up at them in surprise. “Um, yes?”

Birdie’s eyes grew wide. “As in, the ‘No More Than Half the Fridge Can Be Filled with Beer At One Time’ Bylaw  _ Bitty _ ?”

“I still can’t believe you added that to the bylaws,” Bitty said to Shitty. “You fought me tooth and nail on the butter-to-beer ratio for a whole year.”

Shitty shrugged. “I was graduating, I didn’t care anymore. Plus I knew Lardo would hate it.”

Lardo scoffed. “You’re such a dick, Shits.”

“You’re the Bitty on the plaque over the kitchen door?” Guy #3 asked. “The ‘BITTY’S MOTHERFUCKING KITCHEN - ABANDON ALL NUTRITION PLANS, YE WHO ENTER HERE’ plaque?”

Bitty nodded. “Rans and Holster thought they were being funny.”

The three boys stared at Bitty for a full minute, until Hammer broke the silence. “You’re shorter than I imagined.”

“Aren’t you on the Food Network?”

“Is it true that you once made a LAX bro cry because your brownies were so magical?”

Bitty was a little overwhelmed by the sudden attention. He’d known Jack’s legacy would live on forever at Samwell, and he’d suspected that all his other teammates had made their own marks, but he hadn’t quite realized that  _ their _ marks had been to commemorate  _ him _ .

“Hello? Shitty, is that you?”

Jack poked his head into the living, smiling when he saw Bitty. The three bros froze, eyes darting between Jack and the shrine.

“JACQUES LAURENT.” Shitty catapulted himself across the room to tackle Jack in a hug. “Brah, I swear you’ve gotten more muscle-y since last week.”

“They slippin’ ‘roids into your Gatorade, bro?” Lardo asked with a wink. Jack pushed Shitty away and pulled her into a hug. “Damn, Shits is right. So muscle-y.”

“Hey, darlin’, how was your meeting?” Bitty asked. Jack broke away to peck Bitty on the lips, arm loosely twining around his waist.

“It was good,” he said with a smile. “Nice catching up with Hall. You hear he’s retiring next year?”

Bitty smiled. “Yes, Jack, unlike you I  _ check _ my email every now and then. Chowder and Nursey have been planning a retirement party for months now.”

“Not Dex?” Shitty asked, grabbing Jack’s and Bitty’s hands and dragging them into the kitchen. As they turned the corner, Bitty caught a glimpse of the smug look Lardo was giving the three bros.

He turned back to Shitty and shook his head. “No, you know how stressed Dex gets about spending money and talking to people.”

“Rude, Bitty.”

As if on cue, Dex ducked his head through the kitchen door, scowling. Bitty grinned and made grabby hands until Dex relented and came into the kitchen to give him a hug.

“Bitty’s here?!” Chowder was suddenly part of the hug, arms squeezing tight around Bitty. “Bitty! Jack! Everyone’s here!”

“Wow, some things never change.”

Nursey entered the kitchen, grinning lazily at his old teammates. “Derek Nurse, get your butt into this group hug right now,” Bitty said. With a laugh, Nursey squeezed between Dex and Chowder, pulling Bitty to his chest.

“Aw, you guys are gross,” Lardo said as she began rummaging through the cabinets. “Ooh, Bits, they have, like, actual ingredients. You could totally make something.”

“Bitty’s making pie?”

“Bits, are you baking?”

Bitty was pulled from Nursey by two pairs of very large arms. Ransom and Holster squashed him between them, someone noogying his head, someone else pounding his back. Bitty squawked in indignation, but hugged them back all the same.

“Alright, alright, let me just see what they have.” Bitty pulled away from the group, patting his hair back into place. “Jack, honey, see if they have a pie tin? I know I left at least three behind when I moved out.”

The kitchen burst to life then, everyone falling back into their roles as if they’d never left, never grown up and moved on with their lives. Dex preheated the oven; Chowder pulled out mixing bowls; Ransom and Holster began chopping apples, competing to finish first; Lardo and Shitty measured flour and sugar; Jack pulled stick after stick of butter from the fridge; and Nursey turned on the radio, knowing to keep his clumsy hands far away from Bitty’s workspace.

As he worked, a part of Bitty felt eighteen again, baking pies and cookies and brownies for the odd teammates who’d adopted him, just trying to stay in their good graces. But the other part of him, the almost-30 Bitty who had a job he loved and a husband he loved more - the Bitty of  _ now _ knew better, knew that these silly bros were his family.

Birdie, Hammer, and Guy #3 watched from the doorway, eyes wide. “Wow,” one of them whispered. “He really lives up to the hype, huh?”

Bitty snorted. “Jack’s right here, he can  _ hear _ y’all, y’know.”

“No, man,” Hammer said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “We were, uh, talking about  _ you _ .”

“Oh.” Bitty looked up, a little stunned, then grinned. “Well, for that, y’all get seconds.”

“Trust us,” Ransom said, pointing a knife at the boys. “You’re gonna want those seconds.”

They worked together like a slightly rusty machine, getting back into the groove after years of disuse, but the atmosphere in the kitchen was light and warm. The three bros didn’t seem to mind that their Haus had been overtaken by weird alumni - mostly they kept staring at Bitty and Jack, asking more questions than Tango had as a Frog, occasionally helping find where something had been stored.

Holster and Nursey sang and danced to the radio, using wooden spoons as microphones. Lardo asked Chowder about his job, about Farmer, face going soft and fond. Shitty and Ransom heckled Dex about his new boyfriend, John, demanding to see pictures to make sure he hadn’t made him up.

The pie came out a little lopsided, the lattice-top clumped together on side, but Bitty took about a thousand pictures for his Instagram anyway. Plates were passed around, slices doled out, and a brief silence as everyone took their first bites.

“Holy fuck,” Birdie whispered reverently. “This is  _ magical _ .”

“That’s our Bits, for ya,” Shitty said around a large mouthful. “Talented lil fucker.”

Conversation broke out again, filling with kitchen with noise and laughter.

Bitty sat at the familiar, dingy table and looked around. His old team, his best friends, his  _ family _ , all crowded in the kitchen, eating the pie he’d made for them, the pie they’d all made together, laughing and talking and soaking up the togetherness of the moment.

Jack caught his eye across the table and smiled, his own plate already empty. After all these years together, Bitty thought Jack might’ve been sick of pie by now, but he still ate anything and everything Bitty put in front of him, still loved it, still loved  _ Bitty _ .

Bitty ate another bite, barely tasting it, as distracted as he was. But it was warm and gooey in his mouth and settled in his stomach nicely. Lardo and Shitty were talking about some movie they’d see recently. Ransom and Holster were harassing the three bros about parties and Haus bylaws. The Frogs - so many years later, they were still Bitty’s Frogs - ate and argued and, though older, seemed no different than they had when they’d lived here with Bitty.

“Hungry?” Jack asked, and Bitty looked down to realize his plate was completely empty, save for the sticky residue of the apple filling. He smiled at Jack and shrugged.

“It was good,” he said and Jack chuckled.

“Of course it was,” his husband said, reaching for his hand under the table. “You made it.”

Bitty shook his head, his heart feeling warm and light in his chest. “ _ We _ made it.”

Light streamed in through the kitchen window and Bitty realized this was where he belonged. With his family. Loved.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I’ve been smashing this together for months, just sort of trying to make sense of 25K+ words of unintelligible emotion and sentence fragments (and some really questionable use of punctuation). 
> 
> Also, fun fact, when I went back to edit I realized I had named three separate minor chatacters Ben. So that was annoying.


End file.
